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WENDOVER HOUSE 



ADELAIDE L. ROUSE. 


Author of “Frontier and City,” and “Stephen 
Vane’s Trust.” 





PHILADELPHIA: ^ 

THE AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, 

1122 Chestnut Street; 

New York: 8 & io bible- house. 


[Copyright, 1892, by The American Sunday-School Union.] 





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WENDOVER HOUSE. 


CHAPTER I. 

AGNES’ STORY 

** *Tis but lame kindness 
That does its work by halves.** 

afternoon when I was about nine years old, 
I sat by the fire in Nurse Hillyer’s room 
turning over the leaves of my book, and wish- 
ing that it were tea-time ; for the days seemed 
long then, and the great house empty. Nurse 
Hillyer was knitting a long gray stocking and 
reading “Baxter’s Saint’s Rest,” a favorite 
book of hers, and I wished that she would put 
it down and talk to me. I was tired of the 
constant click, click of the needles, and the oc- 
casional turning of leaves. I remember just 
how the wind roared in the chimney, and how 
the rain dashed against the window-panes. The 
fire that glowed brightly upon the hearth, was 
the most comfortable object in the room. 

Aunt Wendover’s fires never glowed, and the 


6 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


rooms at Wendover House were not bright nor 
pleasant. I liked the great, dim library better 
than any other room, but that grew very lonely 
toward night, so I often took my book and went 
to Nurse Hillyer’s room ; for, as I said, her fire 
was bright and cheery. 

Next to the library I liked the long, dark 
gallery where the family portraits were hung. 
A little organ stood there, and I used to play 
on it, very softly so no one could hear me ; for 
Aunt Wendover would not have any music in 
the house. A great piano stood in the draw- 
ing-room, but I had never seen it opened. I 
knew it was a piano because Nurse Hilly er told 
me so, and I had a great curiosity to see what 
it looked like. I had often tried to raise the 
lid, but it would not open, and I used to won- 
der how the sound must feel all shut up in that 
dark case. 

One day while rummaging in the gallery in 
the east wing, I noticed a square, box-like piece 
of furniture. I opened it, and saw some yel- 
low keys, but when I touched them they gave 
no sound. Then I put one foot on the pedals 
and struck the keys. I stopped in fright, for I 
had found its voice. But I soon lost my fear, 
and I stayed there a long time, trying to follow 
a tune that I had heard Barbara, the maid, 
sing. It was something about a young girl who 


AGNES’ STORY. 


7 


was alone in the world, and who was dying of 
want and loneliness, and it had a sad little 
refrain : “ never again, never again.” I suc- 
ceeded in picking out part of the tune, and 
day after day I went there, till I could make 
out the whole song, playing it with one finger. 
Then I tried to make the organ tell how I felt, 
shut up in a great house, with nobody to love 
me, and where nothing ever happened. I found 
much pleasure in this, and when I was particu- 
larly sad, I would creep away to the organ for 
consolation. I don’t think that the stiff ladies 
and gentlemen in the frames above me minded 
me, and I disturbed no one else. It was an 
eerie place, for I was a nervous, imaginative 
child, and I sometimes fancied that the people 
in the frames moved and looked at me. One 
day I was sure that a high-ruffed lady just 
above the organ shook her finger at me. I 
screamed so loudly that all the household came 
running to see what was amiss. Aunt Wen- 
dover came too, and she shook me for what she 
called my silliness. Ever after that I would 
leave the gallery when it began to grow dark. 

On this afternoon I had been reading a long 
time, and when I grew tired of my book I went 
to the organ and began to play. Suddenly the 
door of one of the empty rooms opened, and 
Aunt Wendover came out. I would not have 


8 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


been much more surprised if the high-ruffed 
lady had stepped down from her frame ; for 
Aunt Wendover never came near that part of 
the house. She came toward me, and laying 
her hand on my shoulder, she said, “Agnes, 
you are not to touch the organ again. Remem- 
ber.” - 

I was afraid of her piercing, black eyes and 
her cold touch on my arm. She went back 
into the mysterious chamber and locked the 
door. I crept to the keyhole and listened, but 
I heard nothing except the rustling of papers 
and the opening and shutting of drawers. 

I seemed determined to be in mischief that 
afternoon. A large picture entirely covered 
with crape hung in the gallery. All my life I 
had regarded it with wonder and awe, but I had 
never dared to touch it. That afternoon I 
mounted a chair and tugged at the crape cover- 
ing. It was securely fastened, and I could not 
move it, though I succeeded in tipping my chair 
over, and the crash brought Aunt Wendover to 
the door. She must have seen at a glance that 
the picture had been disturbed, for she said, 
“ Agnes, if you do not let things alone I shall 
forbid your conaing here. Go and sit quietly in 
your room for two hours as a punishment for 
meddling.” 

I did not heed her words, but grasped hold 


AGNEs’ STORY. 


9 


of her dress,- and said, “O Aunt Wendover, 
won’t you please tell me who is behind that 
crape ? What does the picture look like ? ” 

“ The falsest, fairest face God ever made,” 
she said as if forgetting my presence. But she 
suddenly seemed aware of it. She took me by 
the shoulder and thrust me into my own room, 
repeating her injunction to sit there for two 
hours. 

I don’t know how the time passed, for there 
were no books in the room, and I never had any 
playthings. I had never in my life owned a 
doll. My room was as bare as the other rooms 
in that wing. There was a little iron bedstead, 
a washstand, a chest of drawers holding the 
necessary articles of clothing that I possessed, 
one stiff chair, and a long, old-fashioned mirror. 
I had no inducement to look in this, for I was a 
plain, dark child, and I thought myself posi- 
tively ugly. I looked from the window, but 
nothing was to be seen except water, for Wen- 
dover House stood on an island. I never liked 
the water, and I turned away from the window, 
and began to think I had more than usual to 
occupy my mind that day — what Aunt Wen- 
dover was doing in the empty room, why I must 
not touch the organ, what could be behind that 
craped picture — all these questions whirled 
through my brain. Then there were the usual 


10 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


puzzles that troubled me. What was God like, 
and why had he made the world ? For I knew 
that a mysterious being called God had made 
something called the world, and that Wendover 
Island was a part of it. Another question was, 
how did I get to the island, and how should I 
get away ? When I grew to be old, as old as 
Aunt Wendover, should I stay there ? 

The time passed at last, and I saw by the tall 
clock in the corner that my two hours had ex- 
pired. I ran to the library and looked for a 
book, for ever since I could remember I had 
been fond of reading, and it was my only pleas- 
ure. There were numberless volumes in the 
'•library, and no one had ever forbidden my 
touching them. I had read most of the books 
in bright covers, and I had looked over those 
that were illustrated, but there were thousands 
of dark, heavy books that I had no desire to 
touch. I took down a copy of Burton’s An- 
atomy of Melancholy, which, by some freak of 
fancy, had a gay crimson binding. It had 
escaped my notice until then, and I promised 
myself a rare feast ; but I soon put it back on 
its shelf, and took down an old favorite of 
mine, the Arabian Nights. I became so fasci- 
nated by the pictures it called up before me, 
that I forgot how cold the library was, and all 
the incidents of the afternoon slipped from my 


AGNES’ STORY. 


11 


mind, until the lessening light warned me to 
find refuge in Nurse Hilly er’s room. It was a 
western room, much lighter than the library, 
and I read a few pages more till it grew too 
dark even for my young eyes to see. After that 
the events of the afternoon kept running 
through my mind, and I wanted to ask some 
questions. I was convinced that there was 
some mystery about the house, because many 
queer things happened. I resolved to find the 
key to some of the secrets, so when Nurse 
Hilly er laid her knitting down, I said, 

“Nurse, why is Aunt Wendover so queer, 
and why won’t she let me see the craped pic- 
ture, and why are all the rooms shut up, and 
why won’t she let me play on the organ ? ” 

Nurse was used to my questions about my 
aunt’s peculiarities, but when I mentioned them 
over she looked surprised. “ Miss Agnes, 
surely you never touched the craped picture,” 
she said. 

“ I only just touched it, nurse. I have always 
wanted to know what is behind the crape. 
What harm could it be if I knew ? Can’t you 
show it to me ? ” 

“ Miss Agnes, I wouldn’t to-uch that picture 
for anything. Mind you never do it again I 
Miss Wendover has reason to be much dis- 
pleased with you.” 


12 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


But, nurse, do you know who is behind the 
crape ? ” I persisted. “ Aunt Wendover says it 
is the falsest, fairest face God ever made.” 

Nurse seemed to be in a brown study. She 
sat with her lips pursed up, and her hands 
crossed on her lap. I grew tired of waiting, 
and I asked another question. 

“ Nurse Hillyer, why won’t Aunt Wendover 
let me play on the organ ? ” 

‘‘ O Miss Agnes, she didn’t hear you do that, 
did she?” asked nurse sadly. “Never do it 
again, child. It vexes Miss Wendover.” 

“ Oh dear ! ” I sighed. “ I am so tired of be- 
ing told to let things alone ! I wish that I 
could live in a little house of only one room ; I 
am so tired of big shut-up rooms where, nobody 
but ghosts live.” Nurse shook her head ; but 
I went on, “ There are ghosts in the world, for 
Hamlet saw one I ” 

Nurse looked puzzled. She evidently knew 
nothing of Hamlet ; her reading was of a dif- 
ferent kind from mine. 

“Is there a ghost in Wendover House?” I 
asked, fearful of hearing her say there was one, 
and yet half hoping that there might be. 

But nurse’s patience was exhausted. She 
rose and rang the bell. “You ask too many 
questions. Miss Agnes. I am sure your aunt 
wouldn’t like to have me answer them. Has 


AGNES’ STORY. 


13 


Miss Wendover had tea?” she asked of the 
maid who appeared at the door. 

“ No, but Miss Agnes is to have her tea with 
you” 

“ Very well, Barbara, you may bring it up,” 
said nurse. 

I knew that my aunt either had company, or 
that she was displeased with me ; for at other 
times I would take my meals with her. Com- 
pany came very seldom to Wendover House, 
and my aunt was very often displeased with me ; 
so I concluded that the affair of the picture and 
the organ was the cause of my banishment. I 
was always glad of any reason for taking tea 
with nurse, for the solemn, stately meals in the 
great dining-room were a sad trial to me. I 
don’t think I was a very awkward child, but in 
the presence of my aunt, I did everything 
wrong. I felt her eyes were on me, and in my 
confusion I dropped my bread, spilled my milk, 
and gulped my food in a way that drew down 
many a merited rebuke. Once, in my awkward 
misery, I dropped one of the precious china 
plates and broke it in a dozen pieces, and since 
that day I had eaten from a plate of common 
ware, taken from the servants’ closet. Then 
Hawkins, the grim butler, who stood behind 
my aunt’s chair, seemed to regard me with eyes 
that chilled my blood. I was even more afraid 


14 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


of him than of Aunt Wendover. I think I did 
not eat enough to keep a bird alive, but I often 
got a lunch from Nurse Hillyer’s store-room, 
and her apples and gingerbread were a great 
solace to me. 

When I took my tea with nurse, she often 
allowed me to set the table and help her, and 
this evening I knelt on the hearth-rug making 
toast. . Then I carefully buttered it, and 
brought the teacups from the closet. After 
that, I reached down the keys of the store- 
room, and asked, “Nurse, don’t you think we 
might have some jam to-night ? It is siich a 
dreary night, and strawberry jam is nice and 
comforting.” 

Nurse laughed as she singled out the particu- 
lar key she wanted ; for she was housekeeper, 
and all the stores were in her charge. She was 
accustomed to humor me, and I added, “ And 
sponge cake, too, you know. I haven’t had tea* 
with you in three weeks, and Aunt Wendover 
never has sponge cake.” 

The sponge cake and the jam made their ap- 
pearance, and we sat down to our tea. I en- 
joyed the cheerful little meal, for the logs 
crackled on the hearth, and I didn’t mind the 
rain outside, when the lamps were lighted. 

After Barbara cleared the table, I brought 
out my books and studied my lessons. Usually 


AGNES’ STOEY. 


15 


I learned them in the drawing-room under my 
aunt’s surveillance, but as she did not send for 
me I sat and swung my feet to and fro, a pro- 
ceeding that would not have been tolerated in 
the drawing-room. I learned my tasks quickly, 
for when my aunt was not present I had no 
temptation to let my mind wander from my 
book, and besides, I was anxious to finish them 
* so that I could talk to nurse. I conjugated my 
Latin verb and learned my geography and his- 
tory, then, when I had piled my books upon the 
table, I drew my stool close to nurse and 
watched her knitting. I used to wonder what 
she did with all the stockings she knit, for she 
was constantly making them, and she could not 
wear them out. Besides, I knew they were 
much too large for her. Just then she was set- 
ting the heel, and I knew she would not talk 
while doing that. So I sat and watched the 
pictures in the flames till she was knitting as 
usual. 

Then I asked abruptly, “Nurse Hillyer, who 
am I?” 

“ Agnes Wendover, of course,” said nurse, 
quietly. 

“ Yes, I know, but I mean, where do I come 
from ? The first thing I can remember is being 
four years old, and seeing Aunt Wendover look 
so sharply at me. Didn’t something happen 


16 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


before that ? I must have begun somewhere. 
Was I ever anywhere else, Nurse Hillyer? 
Seems to me I haven't always been here where 
I can’t know anything about myself. I hate 
dark closets and secrets and I hate not to know 
things. If I ask questions, you say, hush, and 
Aunt Wendover always makes me do more les- 
sons. If I could only go back where I began, 
and then go on right ! ” 

“ What do you mean, Miss Agnes ? ” 

“It seems to me I must have begun right. 
You say God made me, and he must have 
started me right, and then it seems that some- 
thing happened that tangled things dreadfully. 
I can’t tell just how, for my head aches when I 
try to think it out. It is harder than my Latin. 
Now, why did God let me get all wrong? 
Don’t he care for people after he makes them ? ” 

“ Miss Agnes, what stuff you are talking ! ” 
said nurse, impatiently ; “ I can’t understand 
you at all.” 

“ Why, it is this. Why did I have to come 
to Aunt Wendover; did I belong* to anyone 
else before she got me ? Seems to me that I 
can just remember being some where else. I 
always thought that God didn’t think any more 
about me after I came to Wendover House. 
He never comes here, I know, for Aunt Wen- 


AGNES' STORY. 17 

dover says she don’t believe there is any God at 
all.” 

“Now, Miss Agnes,” Nurse Hillyer began, 
but I interrupted her. 

“ I know she don’t, for I heard her tell Dr. 
Barnham once that God had never troubled 
himself about her, and that she guessed there 
was none. She told the doctor that when he 
asked her to go to church and let me go to 
Sunday-school. She said there was no use in 
putting nonsense into my head, that I was silly 
enough already. But I am not silly, because I 
think a great many things,” I added half to my- 
self. “ So that is what makes me think that 
God don’t care for any one in Wendover 
House,” I said, going back to the question that 
troubled me. “If I could get away I might 
find out about him. I don’t know how God 
could find a little girl in a big, lonely house, 
and then, there’s the water all around it. Have 
I always got to stay here. Nurse Hillyer?” 

“ I am sure I don’t know. Miss Agnes, but 
you ought to be thankful for such a good home. 
I know that Miss Wendover would blame me 
for telling you, but I am sure it is no more than 
my duty. Miss Agnes, God is Everywhere ! 
He knows everything you do or say, and he is 
watching you all the time, much sharper than 
Miss Wendover watches you. So you must be 
2 


18 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


very careful what you do, or some day when 
you tell stories to Miss Wendover, he will send 
some awful punishment on you. People have 
been struck dead for lying.” She rolled up her 
stocking, and, looking significantly at the clock, 
said, “ It is eight o’clock already, and you ought 
to be in bed this minute. What Miss Wend- 
over would say to me, I am sure I don’t 
know.” 

“ Oh ! nurse, couldn’t I sit up ten minutes 
longer? ” I begged. “ It is so dark and still in 
my room, and just as soon as I shut my eyes I 
see all sorts of dreadful things. I could stand 
it better if I had a light. Something walks in 
the room under mine, and it talks and cries. I 
hear it almost every night.” 

“ Nonsense, Miss Agnes ! You must hear 
Miss Wendover moving about, and you imagine 
the rest. Come, come, your eyes are as big as 
moons. I did wrong to let you talk so much.” 

She took a lamp and led the way through a 
long hall, then through the gallery where my 
organ stood. Involuntarily I glanced at the 
wall where the draped picture had always hung, 
and it was gone ; but the lady over the organ 
seemed gaily to shake her finger at me as I 
passed. 

I think Nurse Hillyer would have liked to sit 
with me sometimes till I fell asleep, but Aunt 


AGNES’ STORY. 


19 


Wendover had forbidden it. So when I was 
tucked in bed nurse went away, carrying the 
light with her. And all at once the dark be- 
came peopled with fantastical shapes. I fancied 
I saw Satan as Milton had painted him, and as 
Dante had painted him ; for I had read more or 
less of both Paradise Lost and the Divine Com- 
edy. Besides these, satyrs and goblins passed 
before my eyes. The scratching of a mouse in 
the wall set my heart beating, for I imagined 
that some dreadful thing was about to spring on 
me. This night I had a new horror, for I felt 
that the eyes of God were searching me as Aunt 
Wendover’s always did. Nurse Hillyer had 
said I never could get away from him, and I 
was afraid of the very thought of a being who 
could see me even in the dark. This was worse 
than any of my old terrors, and I felt that I 
never should fall asleep. Aunt Wendover had 
said that there was no God, and Nurse Hillyer 
said there was one, and an awful one. My 
ideas of God had been gleaned from the books 
I had read, principally from Milton. I do not 
think there was a Bible in the house, although 
Nurse Hillyer must have had one. I did not 
then even know of the existence of a Bible, 
though I had read many books far beyond my 
years. 

The wind rose as the evening wore on, and I 


20 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


could hear the waves beating against the rocks. 
I had no fear of the storm ; I had worse terrors. 
I was so tired of the island and the dreary 
house, that I meant to escape some day, I did 
not know how I should do it, but I meant to 
reach the mainland where there were houses 
and churches. I knew they were churches, 
though I had no idea what they were for. I 
would run and run so far that Aunt Wen- 
do ver’s eyes could never spy me out. Now I 
could not go, for I could not escape God’s eyes. 
Nurse said he never slept, and Aunt Wendover 
did sleep sometimes. I shuddered, and buried 
my face in the pillow, and after a while I fell 
asleep. 


CHAPTER IL 


AGNES’ STOEY. 

I HEAR a dear, familiar tone, 

A loving hand clasps close my own, 

And earth seems made for me alone. 

. — Alice Cary. 

^HE storm was over when I awoke next morn- 
ing, and except a few broken branches of 
trees, left no trace behind. 

I hoped that I should breakfast with nurse, 
but my aunt had left no such order ; so I was 
forced to go down to the dining-room. Aunt 
Wendover sat behind the urn, looking more 
forbidding than ever, and she seemed to scan 
me from head to foot as I came in. Instinct- 
ively, I felt of my hair, to know if it was 
smooth, and looked to see if my apron was on 
straight. A lovely morning sun was shining, 
but the blinds were not opened, and the room 
had a musty smell that made me feel faint. I 
crumbled my bread in my milk, and ate a few 
spoonfuls, swallowing them with difficulty. I\Iy 
aunt seemed to eat even less than I, and she 
soon rose and left the room. Not one word 

( 21 ) 


22 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


had she spoken to me except to reprove me for 
sitting on the edge of my chair. I knew she 
was angry with me for my meddling the day 
before, and I was glad to get off without any 
reference to the subject. 

After breakfast I had nothing to do for two 
hours, for my governess. Miss Manning, never 
came until ten.^ I went over my lessons to make 
sure I knew them, then I read a while, and at 
last I went into the corridor. In spite of the 
knowledge that God’s eyes were on me, I 
wanted to open the organ. I did not mean to 
play on it, but I wanted to see if it was locked 
as the piano was. Two or three times I laid 
my hand on the lid and took it away again, and 
when I mustered courage to try to raise the lid 
I found it locked. As I stood there, Barbara 
came up and told me that Miss Manning was 
waiting in the school-room. I sighed and 
turned away. Slowly I opened the door and 
sat down at my desk. 

I always thought that Aunt Wendover en- 
gaged Miss Manning because she w^as so much 
like herself. She had the same spare, straight 
figure, the same keen, black eyes, and the. same 
voice, sharp and shrill. Miss Manning, how- 
ever, was not so severe as my aunt, and when I 
had good lessons, she was almost kind. I re- 
cited and studied till noon, when lunch was 


AGNES’ STORY. 


23 


served in the school-room. There were more 
lessons till two, when Miss Manning was rowed 
back to the mainland, and I was free again. 
This morning Miss Manning was quite gra- 
cious : I had recited my Latin perfectly, and 
she allowed me to talk more than usual. I 
asked her many questions about the city and 
the people who lived there, and she answered 
me till I asked, ‘‘Why won’t Aunt Wendover 
let me go there? I am tired of this house I ” 

“ Little girls should do as their elders tell 
them, and ask no questions,” she replied. After 
that I could not make her talk any more, and 
we went back to our lessons. 

After she left, I went to the wharf and 
watched her boat till it was but a tiny speck on 
the water. Hers was almost the only boat that 
ever came to the island. Once in a while a red- 
faced, gray-haired man, whom Nurse Hillyer 
said was Aunt W endo ver’s lawyer, came. Then 
I was sent out of the way while my aunt and 
Mr. Bishop were talking about something nurse 
called “ business.” Sometimes Dr. Barnham 
came, but not as^ often as I wished, for I 
liked him. He always spoke pleasantly to me, 
a!id sometimes gave me sugar-plums. But he 
scarcely looked at me when my aunt was pres- 
ent, for she never liked any one to notice me 
much. I used to watch the water and wish that 


24 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


the doctor would come. I counted the time 
since he had last been at the island. It was 
only three weeks, and sometimes he did not 
come for months at a time. There was no use 
in watching for him, so I turned back to the 
house. I stood in front and scanned the win- 
dows for a friendly face, but no one was there 
save my aunt, who raised the drawing-room 
window and told me to come in, for the dew 
was falling. 

Nothing happened to break the dull monot- 
ony of those days. I studied and read and 
dreamed as usual, and every day I grew more 
morbid. Nurse Hilly er was taken ill, and I 
was forbidden to go to her room. Dr. Barn- 
ham came and went, but it was when I was in 
the school-room, and I did not once see him. 
Winter was not far distant, and we had a long 
spell of rainy weather, so that I could not go 
out. My daily exercise was a walk on the pi- 
azza, and as my aunt usually sat in the draw- 
ing-room in sight, I did not enjoy myself much. 

I often wondered why Aunt Wendover did 
not let me get sick and die, for she did not 
seem to care for me. I knew that people died, 
for I had read it in books, but I had little idea 
what death meant, except that I would go away 
from Aunt Wendover. I wonder now that I 
did not go crazy in those long daj^s, for I had 


AGNES’ STOKY. 


25 


no hope to keep my heart alive. I missed the 
organ so that I was driven to disobedience. 
Oncp when I examined the lock, I found that 
it was weak, and I got a knife from the kitchen 
and pried it open. I was so frightened at my 
success, that I did not dare play that day. But 
after that, when I knew that my aunt was 
busied in another part of the house, I used to 
play my favorite wail. I had an addition to it 
now, for life was more dull and barren than 
ever. 

A couple of weeks later I heard the door-bell 
ring one day, and, hoping that it might be Dr. 
Barnham, I ran to the stairway. But the voice 
was not his, it sounded like Mr. Bishop’s. 
Nurse Hillyer, who was around again, came 
and called me to her room, and I took my tea 
there that night. 

When the door opened to admit Barbara, I 
heard a sound that I had never before heard in 
that house — a laugh, a light, happy laugh. It 
startled me, and I asked, “ What is that ? ” 

“ 1 heard nothing,” said nurse, and I turned 
to my books. 

She said I was not to go down-stairs again 
that night, and she took me early to bed. I 
fell asleep wondering how anybody dared laugh 
in AVendover House. 

Next morning as I stood at the head of the 


26 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


stairs, my eyes fell upon some thing that I sup- 
posed was an apparition. The figifte of a child, 
a fair boy of about my own age, stood before 
me. He was dressed like some pictures I had 
seen, in a black velvet dress and a broad lace 
collar, and long curls of yellow hair fell upon 
his shoulders. He came toward me smiling, 
and I was afraid of him, for I thought he was 
an angel. Just then the door of my aunt’s 
room opened, and Miller, her maid, beckoned to 
the child. He ran away, turning his head to 
look at me. I had breakfast with nurse, and 
when I questioned her about the strange child, 
she merely shook her head. I could not make 
her speak. 

I did not see my aunt for two days, though 
two or three times I caught a glimpse of the 
strange child. On the third day, as I sat in the 
library straining my eyes over my book, the 
door opened, and he came in. 

‘^I’ve found you at last!” he cried, laugh- 
ingly. “ What made you hide away from me ? ” 
He came close to the sofa where I had curled, 
up to keep warm, and looked at me. “ What 
is your name ? ” he asked. 

“ Agnes,” I said. 

“ Agnes? Is that all? ” 

“Agnes Wendover.” 

“ My name is Paul Raymond. I have come 


AGNES’ STORY. 


27 


here to live, and I am so glad that there are 
more children in this big house.” 

“ Are you really going to live here ? ” I asked 
eagerly, for already the long days seemed to 
brighten. 

“Yes, are you glad? Do you like me? I 
like you, Agnes.” 

“ I like you. I am glad you are here,” I said 
simply. “ But how did you get here ? ” 

“ I came over the dark water one evening 
with Mr. Bishop. Do you know Mr. Bishop? 
He is a real nice man, though I didn’t like him 
much at first. We had a long travel before we 
came to the water, and I was very tired, though 
I am quite rested now. Nobody told me that I 
should find a little girl here? How old are 
you ? ” 

“ Nearly nine.” 

“ Then you are older than I, for I am not 
much past seven. I am quite as tall as you, 
though. What are you reading?” and he 
stretched himself up till he could look at my 
book, “Fairy tales,” he said. “I used to like 
them when I was littler, but I haven’t read any 
lately. I haven’t had any books to read for a 
long time. Do you do lessons, Agnes ? ” 

“ Every day,” I said ; “ they are very hard.” 

“ What do you study ? ” 

I went over the list of my studies, and he 


28 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


sighed. “ Why, you are very clever. I don’t 
know much, but I like to read. I am going to 
study, for Miss Wendover said so.” 

“ Do you like Aunt Wendover ?” I asked in- 
voluntarily. 

“ Yes. Don’t you like her ? She is very 
good, only now she is ill, and I don't see her 
much. Don’t you like her, Agnes?” he per- 
sisted. 

“She doesn’t love me,” I faltered, hardly 
daring to say that I didn’t like her, for fear she 
would appear at the door. “Nobody loves 
me.” 

“ I do, Agnes,” said the child smiling. “ I 
love everybody, and I mean to love you very 
much if nobody else loves you.” He perched 
himself upon the arm of my sofa, and sat 
swinging his feet. “Why don’t you come 
down-stairs ? ” he asked. “ Don’t you ever 
come?” 

“ Oh, yes, sometimes, but I like it better up 
here. I like anything better than the drawing- 
room.” 

“ Why, I think it is a nice old room ! It is 
about the prettiest room I ever saw. I think 
this is a dear old house, though it is not one bit 
like my other home.” 

“ O Paul,” I cried, “ do tell me all about your 
life before you came here I I can’t remember 


AGNES’ STORY. 


29 


anything but Aunt Wendover and this place 
with water all around it.” 

“I’ll tell you everything,” he said eagerly, 
“ and we’ll have real jolly times together, 
Agnes.” 

I smiled in sympathy with him, though I had 
no idea what jolly times were. Paul settled 
himself to begin his story, but just then Bar- 
bara came in. 

“ Miss Agnes, you are to come down to din- 
ner to-night. Miss Wendover says,” she an- 
nounced. “ O Master Paul, are you here ? 
Come to Miller and have your hair brushed.” 

Barbara led him away, and as soon as the 
bell rang I went down to dinner. Aunt Wend- 
over was already at the table, looking pale and 
ill. I felt sorry for her, and I wanted to tell 
her so, but I had not the courage. Presently 
Paul came in, and Aunt Wendover smiled the 
least little smile at the sight of him. 

He went right to her, holding out his tiny 
hand. “ Is your head better ? ” he asked anx- 
iously. 

“ Yes, thank you,” she answered in a voice I 
seldom heard. 

The meal progressed quietly. The child 
spoke occasionally, asking polite questions, and 
Aunt Wendover answered him as she had never 
answered me. He was very easy and polite. 


30 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


and I was even more awkward and unfortunate 
than usual. Once I dropped my knife and won 
a sharp rebuke from my aunt. Paul looked up, 
as if surprised at her tone, and his eyes rested 
pleasantly on me. 

After dinner I did not know what to do. I 
always went directly up-stairs after meals, but 
to-night I waited to see what the strange child 
would do. 

He went to my aunt and asked, “ Miss 
Wendover, please may Agnes stay and play 
with me ? ” 

I was startled at the idea of my playing, but 
I listened intently to hear what Aunt Wendover 
would say. 

“ Why, yes, but she must not neglect her 
lessons. Where do you want to stay?” 

“I’d like to sit in the library, if there could 
be a fire there. It is very cold in the library. 
Miss Wendover, and Agnes sat there reading. 
She ought always to have a fire, for she 
coughs.” 

“Does she?” and Aunt Wendover looked 
sharply at me. I was so afraid of her steady 
gaze, that I hid behind the curtain. “ What 
do you want to do in the library ? ” she asked, 
after a moment. 

“ I want to talk to Agnes, and look at the 
books, please.” 


AGNES' STORY. 


31 


Miss Wendover rang the bell. “ Hawkins,” 
she said, “ tell Barbara to make a fire in the 
library at once. I remember that it is Friday 
night, and Agnes has no lessons to prepare. 
You and she may sit in the library as soon as it 
is warm, but wait till Barbara calls you. Ag- 
nes, I hope I can trust you to keep out of mis- 
chief.” 

She went out, and Paul and I stood together 
a few minutes looking out of the window, 
watching the moon rise. Then he turned 
away and went into the next room, which was 
used as a reception-room, and then pushed on 
to the drawing-room. The piano seemed to at- 
tract his attention, and before I could say any- 
thing he pushed back the lid, and slipping on 
the stool, began to play. I was much fright- 
ened, but I listened with delight. Such a flood 
of melody as came from under those tiny 
hands ! I had never before heard anything 
like it. 

“ Isn’t that nice ? ” asked Paul, turning his 
happy face toward me. “ Papa used to play 
that. Now I will play a piece he wrote him- 
self, long before I was born.” 

And straightway he drifted off into the 
sweetest, saddest thing I have ever heard. 
“ Play it again,” I begged when he stopped, for 
I had forgotten my fear of Aunt Wendover. 


32 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


But there was a sudden commotion behind 
us, and I looked to see all the servants stand- 
ing at the door. I expected that Aunt Wend- 
over would come and punish us in some dread- 
ful way, and I dragged Paul away from the 
piano. 

The library was warm by this time, Barbara 
said, and I was anxious to get Paul safely there, 
for I did not know what he might do next. 
There was a dark hall way to be passed through, 
and I trembled with fear as I reached the top 
of the stair. 

“Paul, are you afraid?” I asked. 

“No. Are you? Just take hold of my 
hand, Agnes,” he said, feeling for mine, and 
we passed the dark hall in safety. 

There was a bright wood fire burning in the 
library, and the lamps were lighted. I had 
never seen the room look so cheerful, for the 
fire crackled and glowed, and the flames cast 
their reflection on the dark furniture. 

Paul drew two chairs before the fire, and we 
sat down. “What shall we play?” he asked, 
when Barbara had gone. 

“ I don’t know how to play,” I said. “ Can 
you show me how ? ” 

“ Yes, of course ; but it is so funny that any- 
body shouldn’t know how to play ! What did 
you do before I came ? ” 


AGNES’ STORY. 


33 


“ Nothing but study and read. It was very 
lonely. Where do you sleep ?” I asked, intro- 
ducing a new subject. 

“Right next to Miss Wendover’s room.” 

“ Aren’t you afraid ? ” 

“ No. She comes and kisses me and cries 
over me when she thinks I am asleep. She 
loves me, I guess. I keep my eyes tight shut, 
and she never knows that I am awake.” 

“ She never kissed me. Perhaps if she did I 
shouldn’t be so afraid of her. No one ever 
kisses me ; but Doctor Barnham pats my head 
sometimes when Aunt Wendover is not look- 
ing.” 

“ I’ll kiss you, Agnes,” said Paul, and he 
bent his bright head and kissed me, for he was 
standing beside my chair. 

I sat looking at the strange child who was 
not afraid of Aunt Wendover, and I asked 
abruptly, “Paul, are you afraid of God?” 

“ Why, no ! Who ever heard of such a 
thing ? ” 

“But Nurse Hillyer says that he is always 
watching us worse than Aunt Wendover does, 
and that he never sleeps.” 

“ Of course he always watches us. Isn’t 
that nice, Agnes? for then he always takes 
care of us, you know. He sees us all the 
time, and he hears us when we talk to him.” 

3 


34 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


“ O Paul ! did you ever talk to him ? I 
asked in an awe-struck whisper. 

“Always, every night and morning. That is 
praying, you know, Agnes.” 

“ How do you know he hears you ? Does he 
talk back to you ? ” 

“No, but I feel good in here,” said Paul, lay- 
ing his hand on his heart. 

“ I never knew that God loves us,” I said. 

“ Of course he does. Don’t you under- 
stand, Agnes? God loves us just as our 
fathers do, only better. I ’member how my 
father used, to hold me in his arms, and that is 
just the way God does. He holds us all, and 
his arms are so strong that he never gets 
tired.” 

“Do you like to have God watch you?” I 
asked. 

“ Yes, unless I am naughty. Then I don’t, 
for he is sorry.” 

I sat looking into the fire and thinking, while 
the strange child roamed around the room, 
looking at the books and pictures. I felt 
strangely unlike myself, almost happy, and T 
watched him, half fearing that he would van- 
ish like the people in my favorite fairy tales. 

Presently he came and sat down by me, cross- 
ing his legs in an old-fashioned way. “ Now, 
Agnes, tell me all about your life,” he said. 


AGNES’ STORY. 


36 


And I, glad of a sympathetic listener, poured 
forth my story, telling him of the mysteries and 
secrets the house held. 

“ Paul,” I said, when I had done, “ do you 
know who has the falsest, fairest face God ever 
made?” 

“ Why, no,” he said in surprise. And then I 
told him about the picture. 

“ But it doesn’t hang there any more,” I said ; 
“Aunt Wendover had it moved, and I don’t 
know where she put it. But now I have told 
my story, you tell yours.” 

So he began. “ The first thing I ’member is 
of living in such a pretty little house with papa 
and mamma, oh ! a great way from here ! We 
had flowers and birds and a piano, and my papa 
always used to play, and my mamma would 
sing. Then mamma was taken sick, and one 
day she went away and never came back any 
more. I didn’t see her go, but papa said she 
had gone to heaven to be with God. After 
that papa and I lived alone, and he was so very, 
very good to me, and he taught me to play. I 
always did it, but he showed me how to play 
better. He used to give lessons to lots of 
people, and they called him ’fessor. But by-and- 
by he was so sick that he couldn’t play any 
more. Then some cross-looking men came and 
took away our piano, and lots of our pretty 


36 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


tilings, and papa didn’t stop them. He kept 
growing sicker and sicker, and there was so 
little in the house to eat ! I tried to eat such a 
little bit, so as to leave more for papa, that I 
was hungry most all the time. Well, one day 
some men came with a wagon and took us away 
to a funny big house where people ate very 
plain food from tin plates. They were very 
queer people, Agnes, j^ou can’t think ! Papa 
grew worse and worse till one day he told me 
that he was going away to a lovely home, but 
that he couldn’t take me with him. He said 
that God wanted him, that he would be with 
mamma, and that by-and-by God would take 
me too if I was good. He said I must be 
patient and stay right there, and before long a 
kind lady would send for me and take good care 
of me. Then he kissed me lots of times, and 
we said good-by. When I woke up next morn- 
ing he was gone, and I knew he had gone to 
God. I didn’t cry much for him, for he told me 
not to, and besides, we oughtn’t to cry when 
God takes people to make them happ}^ I stayed 
with the queer people, and they were very good 
to me. Then after a while Mr. Bishop came 
and bought me these nice clothes, and then we 
came here. And that is all I ’member, Agnes ! ” 
“ You have so much more than I have, Paul,” 
I said sadly. “ You have your pretty little 


AGNES’ STOPwY. 


37 


house, and your papa and mamma, and all the 
queer people in the funny house, and I have 
only Aunt Wendover, and the island with the 
water around it.” 

Paul looked at me with sympathy in his eyes. 
“ I’ll tell you, Agnes,” he said, “you may have 
half of my story, and I will take half of yours. 
See, won’t that be nice? You need keep only 
half your lonesome times, and I’ll take half, 
you may have half my pleasant times for your 
own.” 

I did not see exactly how this plan was to be 
worked, but I was grateful to him for offering 
to share the burden of recollection with me. 


CHAPTER III. 


AGNES’ STORY. 

Had I the grace to win the grace 
Of childhood, loving, shy, apart; 

The child should find a nearer place, 

And teach me, resting on my heart. 

— George MacDonald. 

^HE next day was Saturday. I learned my 
Monday’s lessons in a few hours, and I had 
the rest of the day to myself. Paul and I were 
together all the time. Even while I studied, he 
sat beside the table, busied with a book he had 
brought from the library. After a while he put 
the book up and asked me to study aloud. I 
was learning my Latin lesson, and I conjugated 
the verb amo. 

Paul looked surprised. “ 0 Agnes, I don’t 
understand it at all,” he cried. “Do people 
live who talk such a funny language ? ” 

“ Not now, but a great many hundred years 
ago they did,” I explained, feeling somewhat 
elated over my superior knowledge. “Don’t 
you know about Romulus and Remus, and Nero, 
and Horatius at the bridge ? ” 


( 38 ) 


AGNES’ STORY. 


39 


Paul shook Ihs head. “ You must tell me all 
about them, Agnes. You know a great deal 
more than I do,” he said humbly. 

“But you can play beautifully,” I said, feel- 
ing small enough when I remembered the night 
previous. 

“ Can’t you play ? ” he asked. “ Then I must 
teach you. It is very easy, and it is such fun.” 

“ I can play a little on the old organ in the 
corridor. Aunt Wendover forbade me to touch 
it, and — don’t you ever tell, Paul — I go there 
now when she don’t hear me. Is it wrong ? ” I 
asked, anxious to know what the strange child 
would think of my disobedience. 

“ I don’t think it quite nice, Agnes, to play 
if Miss Wendover doesn’t like it. This is her 
house, you know, and all the things in it are 
hers. Mamma always told me that children 
should mind what older people told them.” 

“ But how can it be wrong if she never knows 
it ? ” I asked, for, poor child, my moral sense 
was not very acute. 

Paul shook his head despairingly. He saw 
that he could not make me understand. 

“But must I never play the little organ 
again ? ” I asked. “ I love it dearly.” 

“ Let us ask Miss Wendover about it. Seems 
to me she must say yes, for everybody likes 
music.” 


40 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


“ I should never dare ask her,” I said, trem- 
bling at the thought, but half hoping she would 
not refuse Paul. 

“ She went right up-stairs after breakfast, 
and there were some questions I wanted to ask 
her,” said Paul. “ I’ll ask her at luncheon if 
she don’t look so ill. Are your lessons done, 
Agnes? Then let’s go to the library.” 

I followed him there, and to my surprise, I 
found the curtains drawn, and a fire burning 
again. Altogether, the room looked brighter 
than the rooms at Wendover House were wont 
to look. 

Paul was climbing up the steps as if in search 
of something. “ What are you looking for ? ” 
I asked. 

“ Where are the poetry books, Agnes ? Don’t 
you like them ? I like them better than any 
other books ’cept the Bible.” 

What is the Bible, Paul ? ” I asked, for I 
had seen the name often in my reading. 

“O Agnes Wendover! Don’t you know?” 
Paul cried in astonishment. “ Why, the Bible 
is God’s book I ” 

“ Did he write it ? ” 

“ No, he did not write it himself, but he told 
some good men what to write and they did it. 
That is where we find out about God, Agnes.” 

“ I never knew anything about God, Paul.” 


AGNES’ STORY. 


41 


“ Poor Agnes,” he said, in a tone of pity. 
“ I will find a Bible, and you can read it for 
yourself.” And he began to scan the shelves. 
After a long search he sat down again. “ I 
can’t find any,” he said sighing. “ I must ask 
Miss Wendover to get me one. I have some 
money to pay for it. I had a Bible, but when 
they packed my clothes to come away witli Mr. 
Bishop they forgot it. But I dare say Miss 
Wendover will get me one, and then we will 
have such nice times reading. Do you know, 
some of the Bible seems just like poetry, and 
that makes me like it so ? Do you ever make 
poetry, Agnes ? ” 

“ No,” I said. “ I never knew anybody who 
did. Do you ? ” 

“ I make it sometimes,” said Paul modestly. 
“ Of course it isn’t so good as the poetry grown- 
up folks make, but it jingles just like theirs.” 

“ O Paul ! you are very clever,” I said admir- 
ingly. “ I can’t do the things you can. I am 
very stupid ; I can only study the things in 
books. Shall you recite to Miss Manning? ” 

‘‘ I don’t know. Aren’t you hungry, Ag- 
nes ? I wonder if it isn’t almost time for 
luncheon.” 

“ Yes, but if you are hungry, Nurse Hillyer 
will give you a slice of ginger-bread. She often 
gives it to me. Come, let’s ask her.” 


42 


WENDOVER HOCrSE. 


We found nurse in the store-room, and she 
answered our request by giving us each a slice 
of ginger bread and a red-cheeked apple. We 
sat down on a box to eat our lunch, and watched 
her as she looked over her stores. 

“ What lots of jam and preserves you have, 
Mrs. Hillyer,” said Paul, looking around the 
room. “ I like jam and jelly, but I don’t like 
pickles. This is very nice ginger-bread, Mrs. 
Hillyer. At the place where Mr. Bishop found 
me we never had cake and preserves. We had 
almost nothing but bread and milk, and it was 
not like the milk Miss Wendover gives me to 
drink. This milk is nice and rich. It was such 
a queer place, and I am glad to be here in this 
nice house. I like it here very much.” And 
Paul looked around contentedly, and swung his 
feet. 

At luncheon Paul began, “Miss Wendover, 
will you get me a Bible ? ” 

Aunt Wendover looked aghast, and Hawkins 
stood still, holding a plate between his nap- 
kined thumbs as the clear voice rang through 
the room. 

“ I have some money that Mr. Bishop gave 
me, and I wish you would take it and buy me 
a Bible. I wouldn’t trouble you about it, only 
there don’t seem to be any stores on the Island. 


AGNES’ STORY. 


43 


Agnes and I want a Bible very much, and we 
couldn’t find any in the library.” 

A curious expression came over my aunt’s 
face, and I waited to hear what she would say. 
But her closely shut lips did not open, so Paul 
began again. 

“ Perhaps you would be kind enough to lend 
me a Bible till T can get mine. Agnes and I 
want to read it this afternoon.” 

He looked at her, and smiled pleasantly. To 
my surprise she said, “ I dare say Nurse Hilly er 
will loan you the book you want. You may 
ask her after lunch ” 

“ Thank you. Miss W endover, I will give you 
my money when you are ready to go to the 
store.” 

We got the Bible from Nurse Hillyer after 
some parley, but not till she made a short jour- 
ney to my aunt’s room. We spent the whole 
afternoon reading the book that was so strange 
and mysterious to me. I shall remember that 
afternoon as long as I live, for then I first heard 
about Christ and his mission, and I began to 
see that God was our Father, a being to be 
loved as well as feared. Paul read from the 
parts he called poetry, and as his sweet, childish 
voice read Psalm after Psalm, I listened en- 
chanted, feeling that he had been sent to com- 
fort me. 


44 


WENDOVEK HOUSE. 


After dinner he fell asleep on the sofa in the 
drawing-room, and there Aunt Wendover .found 
him when she came in on some errand. I was 
sitting on the rug, quietly thinking of all I had 
heard the last few hours, and she nearly stum- 
bled over me before she saw me. 

“Are you here, Agnes?” she exclaimed. 
“ It is quite time that you were in bed. Where 
is Paul ? I declare, the child has fallen asleep 
already. How careless of Miller ; she should 
have put him to bed! Go right up-stairs and 
send her down. And mind, Agnes, that you go 
directly to bed. It is long after eight.” 

I picked myself up, and in so doing I knocked 
the tongs against the fender. The noise roused 
Paul, and he sat up, rubbing his eyes. All at 
once he laughed. “I didn’t know where I 
was,” he said. “ I dreamed that I was at home, 
and that my mamma stood by me. How funny 
of me to fall asleep here ! ” 

“ It is time you were in bed,” said Aunt 
Wendover. “ Come, Agnes, don’t stand there 
any longer.” 

I had waited to say good-night to Paul, but 
I hardly knew how to say it before Aunt 
Wendover. He spoke first, “ Good night, 
Agnes. She may kiss me good night, mayn’t 
she, Miss Wendover ? ” 

My aunt nodded, and we kissed each other. 


AGNES’ STOEY. 


45 


I did not say good-night to Aunt Wendover, 
though, for the first time in my life, I felt that 
I wanted to do so. 

Nurse Hillyer came to tuck me in my bed, 
and after she took the light away I lay there, 
quite happy, thinking of God, but not afraid of 
him as I usually was. I had forgotten to ask 
Paul how he prayed, but I resolved to ask him 
the first thing in the morning, and so I fell 
asleep. 

Next day was Sunday. I never knew any 
special meaning to the day, but I knew that it 
came after Saturday, and Aunt Wendover did 
not make me learn any lessons on that day. 
Nurse Hillyer read all day and wore a black 
silk gown, but no one went to church. 

When I went down to breakfast I found 
Paul already in the dining-room. I noticed at 
once that he had on the black velvet dress he 
had worn when he came to the Island. 

“ Good-morning, Agnes,” he said. “ Isn’t 
this a pretty morning ? I am so glad, because 
I want to go to church. I haven’t been to 
church in ever so long.” 

“ Nobody ever goes to church from here,” I 
began. But I did not finish my sentence, for 
Aunt Wendover came in, and breakfast began. 

“I am glad it is such a nice, sunny morning,” 
Paul said to her, “for I want to go to church! 


46 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


Do you go to church in one of those little boats, 
Miss Wendover ? I saw such pretty little boats 
in the boathouse.” 

My aunt’s face flushed slightly, and at last 
she said, “You will not go to church to-day, 
Paul. Try to amuse yourself at home.” 

Paul’s face fell. “What shall I do?” he 
asked. “At home I always went with papa, 
and we had such nice times. But perhaps you 
are too ill to go to-day. I am sorry for you. 
Miss Wendover. Say, Miss Wendover, why 
don’t I call you aunt as Agnes does? Would 
you mind if I did? My papa and mamma are 
dead, and I would feel more as if I had folks 
of my own if I called you aunt.” 

You may call me aunt if you like,” she re- 
plied, and I thought her voice trembled. 

“Thank you. Aunt Wendover! I think that 
sounds very nice.” He slipped from his chair 
and went to her side, for she had finished her 
breakfast. “ I am sorry your head is so bad,” 
he said. “ Can’t I bathe it as I used to bathe 
mamma’s? Cologne water is very nice for 
heads when they ache. I used to put it on 
mamma’s.” 

“ I don’t think it would help mine, Paul. I 
shall lie down and try to rest. You and Agnes 
may go out, but don’t get into mischief, and 
tell Miller to see that you are well wraj)ped up. 


AGNES’ STOKY. 


47 


The air is chilly, although it is a sunny morn- 
ing.” 

“ Shall we play ? ” I asked of Paul, as we 
walked down the stone steps out into the sun- 
shine. 

“ Oh, no ! we must never play on Sunday. 
That would be very wrong, Agnes. We can 
play every other day, but this is God’s day, and 
we must read good books and sing and be good. 
I am sorry Aunt Wendover felt too ill to go to 
church to-day, for I wanted to hear the minister 
'and the organ. Don’t you love to hear the 
organ, Agnes ? ” 

“ I never heard it. Is it like my organ in the 
corridor? ” 

“No, the organs they have in churches are 
most as big as a little house. The one my papa 
used to play was very large, and it had big, big 
pipes. When he played I always thought of 
heaven. I mean to learn to play the organ just 
as soon as I am old enough.” 

“ Paul, how do you pray ? ” I asked abruptly. 

“ Don’t you know how, Agnes ? It is the 
easiest thing in the world. It is just kneeling 
down and thanking God for things and telling 
him what you want. Then you say, amen; 
and you feel so good ! ” 

“But what do you say when you pray?” I 
persisted. “ I want to learn how. I wish you 


48 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


would pray so I can hear you ! Can you do it 
anywhere ? ” 

“ Of course ! Let’s kneel right down by this 
rock, and I’ll pray out loud.” 

I dropped on my knees beside him, and lis- 
tened while he said, “Dear God, we are glad 
this- is such a nice day, and that we have so 
many nice things. Make us good children, and 
let us please thee every day. For Jesus’ sake, 
amen. 

“ Do you see how easy it is ? ” he asked. 
“ It is just as easy as talking to anybody, and 
God always hears us.” 

“ How can he hear everybody when there are 
so many people in the world ? ” 

“ You see, Agnes, God is not like .people. 
He can do many things that people can’t do. 
That is the reason we pray to him. Isn’t it 
nice ? ” He smiled at me till I smiled back, 
quite as happy as he was. 

We sta5^ed outside till Nurse Hillyer called 
us in, and then we read in the Bible and sang 
hymns. Aunt Wendover did not come down- 
stairs again that day, and Paul and I lunched 
and dined alone. Paul chatted as easily as if 
we had been alone in the library, but my old 
fear of Hawkins was on me, and I said nothing, 
but listened to Paul. 

It was during the following week that Paul 


AGNES’ STORY. 


49 


spoke to my aunt on the subject of music. He 
had been to the piano several times and found 
it locked, much to his disappointment. 

“Aunt Wendover, may I please have the 
key of the piano? It is locked,” he said. 

“Hawkins,” called Aunt Wendover, “who 
locked the piano ? ” 

“ I did, ma’am. Those were your orders.” 

“Never mind my orders,” she said almost 
pettishly. “ I told Barbara last week to leave 
it unlocked. See to it, Hawkins.” 

She turned again to her breakfast, and Paul 
ate his bread and milk in perfect content. 

As she left the room, he said, “ Thank you 
very much. Aunt Wendover, for letting the 
piano be unlocked. And please, may Agnes 
play too? She likes the little organ in the 
corridor so very much you know.” 

My aunt looked at me till I was confused, 
and I began to bite the corner of my apron. I 
would not have been suprised if she had ordered 
me to my room. I supposed it was for Paul’s 
sake that she said, “ I don’t care, only she must 
not annoy anybody with her noise, and she 
must not neglect her lessons.” 

“When am I to begin lessons. Aunt Wend- 
over? I think I should like to study with 
Agnes. She is very clever.” 


4 


60 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


“ Is she ? ” said my aunt grimly. “ You shall 
begin to study before long.” 

I was perfectly happy after that. I had my 
little organ, I enjoyed Paul’s companionship, 
and my thoughts were pleasant ones. I tliink 
I began to look happier. I know I did not turn 
away so quickly when I saw my face in the 
mirror. ^!\gnes Wendover did not seem such a 
pitiful, hopeless little creature as usual. I do 
not remember that I ever laughed before Paul 
came, and now I often laughed in sympathy 
with him. The weather was fine, and we were 
out of doors nearly all the time after my lessons 
were done. Paul seemed even more content 
there than in the house, and we roamed all over 
the Island, making friends with the cows and 
the pretty little calf. The great dog Bruno, a 
huge mastiff that had always been my special 
terror, would follow Paul and lick his hands. 
And all the other dogs, for my aunt kept a 
number of fierce beasts, were favorites of his. 
He fed the chickens, the ducks, and the geese 
every day, and this occupation I usually shared. 
Then we would go in and sit down to our meals 
with ravenous young appetites. 

I used to wake in the night and think that 
it all was a dream, that the merry child was 
merely a creature of fancy. Sometimes I wanted 
to creep to his room and assure myself that he 


AGNES’ STORY. 


51 


was really there, but I dared not go lest Aunt 
Wendover’s quick ears should hear me. In the 
morning I would listen to hear his step in the 
hall and his merry laugh, for he was always 
laughing. 

Aunt Wendover was quite kind to me now. 
No, not exactly kind, but she seemed to be 
more conscious of my presence, and I think she 
disliked me less than usual. I know I began to 
feel differently toward her. Sometimes I wished 
that I could go to her and speak as easily as 
Paul did, but I had not lost my old awe of her. 

Soon after Paul came, though I had never 
noticed my clothes before, but Paul did, I saw 
how plain and dull they were. Once when 
Aunt Wendover had been ordering some new 
clothes for Paul, he said, “Aunt Wendover, 
why don’t Agnes have some new clothes ? She 
hasn’t any pretty dresses, they are all brown 
and gray. I think she would look very nice in 
red dresses, for she has dark eyes and hair like 
my mamma, and she wore red a great deal. 
Can’t Agnes have a pretty red dress. Aunt 
Wendover ? ” And he put his hand on her arm 
and looked up in her face. 

“ Would it please you if she had one ?” 

“ Yes, and she needs some pretty ribbons for 
her hair. Agnes has very pretty hair. Aunt 
Wendover. Of course it doesn’t curl, but it is 


62 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


nice and shiny. I like black hair better than 
yellow. Aunt Wendover, don’t you think I 
am too big to wear curls ? I’m ’most seven and 
a half.” 

Aunt Wendover twisted one of the curls over 
her finger as he spoke, but she did not reply, 
and her look was an absent one. I never saw 
her caress him before, and I think she was 
vexed that she had sp far forgotten herself. 
She rose abruptly, and busied herself about the 
secretary. 

A few days later Nurse Hillyer called me to 
her room to be measured for a new dress. The 
dressmaker, a funny little woman with spec- 
tacles, was there. About twice each year she 
came, and measured me for the dull ginghams 
or merinoes T wore every day. This time, how- 
ever, I hoped that there would be a change, 
though I saw nothing but the usual patterns, 
the linings, and the squatty pin-cushion Miss 
Finch always carried. But a few days later, 
when the dress was sent home, it proved to be 
a soft red cashmere, with a dainty frill of lace 
at the throat and wrists. Paul was delighted, 
and he drew me to the mirror where I could 
look at myself. I wore the dress down to 
dinner at his express command, and he actually 
asked my aunt, “ Doesn’t Agnes look nice. Aunt 
Wendover ? ” 


AGNES’ STOBY. 


53 


Oh, how I hoped she would say something to 
show that she approved of me ! But she only 
quoted the proverb : 

“ Handsome is that handsome does.” 

Paul said no more, though he patted my hand 
under the table-cloth. After dinner he offered 
to play for me, and I soon forgot my chagrin 
and disappointment because Aunt Wendover 
would say nothing kind to me. 


CHAPTER IV. 

NURSE HILLYER’S STORY. 

It is great sin to swear unto a sin, 

But greater sin to keep a sinful oath. 

Shakespeare. 

OUCH a change as came over this house one 
^ day when that little boy of Paul Raymond’s 
was brought here ! For a long time I couldn’t 
get used to hearing that child laugh. Agnes 
had never laughed, poor thing, and when she 
laughed with Paul it did not sound natural. I 
am glad he came, for we all were stiffening up, 
and the child seemed to bring a new atmos- 
phere with him. He actually seemed to like 
Miss Wendover at once, and he called her 
Auntie Wendover. It seemed almost a strange 
thing that anyone should love my poor child. 
Of course I always loved her, but I knew her 
long years before her disappointment soured 
her. She was like other people then, loving 
and lovable. * 

Well, Miss Wendover has been good to me, 
I’ll say that. I’ve had my share of trouble, 
and she has stood by me through it all. Not 

54 


NUESE hillyee’s stoey. 55 

that she once so much as said, “ Martha, I am 
sorry for you,” but when I needed a home she 
took me back and found something for me to 
do. When Agnes came, I took charge of her, 
so I’m Nurse Hilly er still, though I am house- 
keeper now. Well, I ought to know something 
about the Wendovers, for I have lived in the 
house since’ I was a girl of sixteen. That was 
before Miss Wendover was born, and I used to 
wait on her mother. Mrs. Wendover was a 
good woman, and I’ll never forget her. She 
never treated me like a servant, and she used 
to teach me herself, so that I had a much better 
education than most people in my position. 

This house was a very different place in Miss 
Alicia’s, young days ! There was always some 
pleasure afoot, and as for company, there were 
boatsful of young people coming and going 
every day, and Alicia the gayest of the gay, 
the life of every party. She had a great many 
suitors, but she saw only Paul Raymond, little 
Paul’s father. The years went on, and people 
wondered why she did not marry, but I did not 
wonder. I knew she would marry no one but 
Paul. And it was there that all the trouble 
began. 

The Wendovers are a proud old family, and 
they all have dreadful tempers. People said 
that old Mr. Wendover’s father w^s always 


56 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


quarreling with his children ; certainly Alicia’s 
father was hard enough to his children. He 
and Mr. Robert, his only son, could never 
agree. One day when they had unusually high 
words, Mr. Robert went away in anger, and he 
never came back. The old man was worse than 
ever after that, for he loved his son in his own 
way. The trouble was, they were too much 
alike to get along in one house. Alicia took 
Mr. Robert’s leaving very hard, for they were 
much to each other. They never heard from 
him till they, got news of his death. He died 
of a fever off in Italy, and left a widow and a 
little girl — Agnes. He had married an Italian 
girl who had been his models for Mr. Robert 
was an artist, and as crazy over pictures as Mr. 
Paul was over music. His wife died soon after 
him, and then Miss Wendover had the child 
brought home. Agnes was about three years 
old when she came to the Island, and for six 
years she never once left it. 

Paul Raymond was about twenty-five when 
he fell in love with a girl he met somewhere on 
his travels. I never knew any of the particu- 
lars, but we all heard more or less of the trouble 
between Mr. Wendover and Paul, for when the 
old man fell into a rage he was more like a wild 
beast than a man. It seems that Paul had told 
him of his engagement, and Mr. Wendover — 


NURSE HILLYER’s STORY. 57 

who was very bad with the gout at the time — 
raged like a tiger, and told Paul that he wanted 
him to marry Alicia. 

“ Marry Alicia,” Paul repeated in a bewild- 
ered way. “ Why, I never thought of her ex- 
cept as a sister. I can’t marry her, for I love 
another woman.” 

I was dusting the furniture in the next room, 
and I couldn't help hearing every word. Dear 
me ! ril never forget that morning. 

Old Mr. Wendover fell into a kind of fit 
when he heard that, and Paul tried to support 
him. But he wouldn’t allow Paul to touch 
him, and he called Alicia. 

When Mr. Wendover got his breath again, 
he said to Alicia, “ Look at him ! He comes to 
me and tells me that he is going to be married, 
when he ought to marry you. Look at him and 
see if he can face you.” 

I don’t know whether Alicia looked at him 
or not, though I am sure that Paul Raymond 
was not the man to cower before anybody, 
Wendover or not. 

He said gently, “ Alicia, there seems to be 
some* misunderstanding. I tell the truth, I 
never thought of marriage with you, and I am 
very sorry ” 

“ A fine thing to tell her to her face,” her 
father screamed, “ when she has refused offer 


58 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


after offer for you, poor beggar that you are. 
Why do you stand there? Leave the house 
before I have you put out.” 

“ Go, Paul, your presence angers him,” said 
Miss Alicia. 

“ Go,” the old man hissed, “ and never set 
foot on the Island again.” And then he cursed 
Paul and his children after him. I can’t write 
his words, they were too dreadful I 

As for Paul, he only said, “ May God for- 
give you. Uncle Hugh, as I do,” and left the 
room. 

Poor Mr. Paul, his face was as white as a 
ghost’s when he came into the room where I 
was, “ Good-bye, Martha,” he said. “ I am go- 
ing away. You have been very kind to me, 
and ril always remember you.” He slipped a 
gold piece into my hand, and I had to put my 
apron to my eyes to wipe away the tears. And 
there was not a servant in the house that 
didn’t feel sorry to see him go, for he had a 
winning way. Paul is like him in that. 

Mr. Wendover had spasms all day, and be- 
tween one of them he made Miss Alicia swear 
that she would never allow one cent of the 
Wendover money to go to Paul. It was a 
dreadful thing to do, but I suppose she thought 
she must, for the old man w^as half mad, and 
there was no telling what he might do. 


NUESE HILLYER’s STORY. 


69 


Alicia never was the same from that day. I 
think she was sorry for the trouble, but what 
could she do with her father, poor old sinner ! 
He nearly wore her out, and it was a wonder 
he lasted as long as he did. He forbade Paul’s 
name to be mentioned, and every reminder of 
him was put away. Paul was very fond of 
music, and so was Miss Wendover, but from 
the day Mr. Paul left, till little Paul came, I 
never heard the sound of a piano in this house. 
Miss Wendover found out that Agnes used to 
drum on the little organ up-stairs, and she for- 
bade her to touch it again. I knew that the 
child used to steal away and play after that, 
but I used to pretend that I didn’t hear her, 
for I couldn’t see that she was doing any 
harm. 

Paul’s coming changed Miss Wendover. The 
first evening he was here, what should he do 
but go into the drawing-room and play, just as 
if that was the proper thing to do in this 
house ! The piano had been tuned the day be- 
fore, for Miss Wendover keeps all her property 
in good repair. Barbara had neglected to lock 
it after the man went away, and so Paul could 
open it. I should never have dreamed that the 
child could play, such a little fellow as he was. 
But all at once I heard the piano, and such 
playing ! It sounded as if Paul Raymond was 


60 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


there himself instead of a child not eight years 
old. I left my room to see what was going on, 
and I met Miss Wendover coming up the stair. 
She turned white as death, and she sank down 
upon the landing, pressing her hand against 
her heart. I was much frightened, for I had 
heard Dr. Barnham say that she had heart dis- 
ease, and I knew he feared any sudden excite- 
ment. 

“ It is nothing, Martha, nothing,” she said, 
“ only a slight faintness. It will pass away. 
You may give me your arm to my room, and I 
will lie down.” 

She leaned heavily on me, and I felt her 
tremble. She shut her door, but several times 
as I passed to make sure that she was safe, I 
heard her sobbing and talking to herself. No 
wonder she was so affected by the child’s play- 
ing, for he played one of the pieces his father 
made himself, long before he left Wendover 
House ! It was a great favorite of Miss Alicia’s, 
and often I’ve heard them playing it together, 
he playing the violin and she the piano. Some- 
times she would play the guitar and he the 
piano. She played the guitar very prettily, 
and she never looked better than when she did 
it. Miss Wendover was very handsome. 

After that, little Paul played whenever he 
liked, and Miss Wendover grew to mind it less 


NURSE HILLYER’S STORY. 61 

and less. Perhaps the dear boy’s music com- 
forted her. When she thought no one saw her, 
she would take him in her arms and press 
him to her heart. She would go to look at him 
at night, as if fearful that he would be stolen 
from her, and if he had the least ailment, she 
was very much alarmed. All those years that 
Agnes had been here, she never received a ca- 
ress. Agnes never touched her heart, but 
Paul did. I doubt if she ever loved her niece. 
Miss Wendover never forgave her brother for 
marrying where he did. Then Agnes was not 
a lovable child, but she never had the proper 
treatment. I could see that she improved af- 
ter Paul came. She began to lose her fright- 
ened expression, and to look one in the face. 
Poor child, she must have led a lonely life 
here ! 

Agnes is all Wendover, the picture of Mr. 
Robert, except in size and manner; those she 
must take from her mother. She was a very 
nervous child, and she had some unpleasant 
ways. She would peep into closets, and open 
drawers when she thought no one was looking. 
Then if questioned she would lie to clear her- 
self. I thought she got her deceit from her 
Italian blood, for the Wendovers wouldn’t lie 
for their lives. Hot-blooded and passionate 
they may have been, but they worshipped truth 


62 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


and honest dealing. ' After Paul came, I began 
to notice Agnes’ failing less and less, and she 
soon seemed as truthful as any child need be. 

Miss Wendover was very indulgent to Paul. 
Agnes never had a plaything, but Paul had such 
a lot of toys that I did not know but what Miss 
Wendover was going crazy. Agnes, too, got 
many privileges through him, for he wouldn’t 
have a thing unless she shared it. 

Agnes always coughed a great deal during 
the fall and winter, and she coughed very hard 
then. One day her aunt heard her coughing in 
the hall, and she told her to go right to me and 
get some cough syrup. A year before she 
wouldn’t have noticed that Agnes was ailing. 
It did me good to see her notice the poor orphan 
a little. 

I really can’t think what would have become 
of Agnes if Paul had not come. I never saw 
two children so fond of each other as they 
were, and they were always together. They 
used to have a great way of sitting on the stairs 
telling stories in the twilight. They must have 
made them up, for I used to listen, and they 
told things that I knew never happened to 
either of them. Sometimes I wondered if they 
wouldn’t get a habit of telling falsehoods, but 
it wasn’t my business to interfere. I am sure I 
often wished to teach Agnes the right, but Miss 


NURSE HILLYER’s STORY. 63 

Weiidover positively forbade me to talk religion 
to her, and I did not dare disobey her so 
directly. Miss Wendover pretended to have 
no belief in anything of the kind, and she said 
that Agnes should not be deceived as she had 
been. She used to be very different, but after 
her disappointment she seemed changed in every 
way. 

Paul was strangely religious for a child. He 
used to talk a great deal to Agnes about God 
and the Bible, for she was as ignorant of such 
things as a little heathen, and I think it worried 
Paul. 

I used to wonder what Miss Wendover would 
do with Paul ; whether she would try to teach 
him her unbelief, or let him go on as he had 
begun. I soon saw that she meant to say 
nothing to stop him. She gave him a Bible 
when he asked for it, and she said nothing 
against his praying. Once she said to me, 
“ Martha, you need say nothing to Paul against 
his pra^dng. It won’t hurt a child to believe 
in such things. I guess it don’t make much 
difference either way,” she added. As if 
I wanted to stop him praying ! I wondered 
if she had heard the sweet childish voice say- 
ing, “God bless Auntie Wendover, and make 
me deserve her goodness to me.” It was a 
strange sight, Hawkins told me, to see him fold 


64 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


his little hands and ask a silent blessing on his 
food. The first time he did it Miss Wendover 
looked surprised, but the next time she signed 
to Hawkins to wait till Paul had finished his 
grace. 

One Saturday morning Miss Wendover came 
to me and said, “ Martha, you will have to go 
to church with Paul. I have put him off for 
several Sundays, and I can't make excuses any 
longer. I don’t want him to know that I do 
not believe in those things, but I can’t go to 
church, nor do I want to. If you don’t mind, 
I want you to go with him to-morrow. John 
can row you over.” 

I was willing to go, and I asked her if I 
should take Agnes too. Her face clouded. 
“ No,” she said, “she has never been accustomed 
to going, but with Paul it is different.” 

Paul came down next morning, all dressed in 
his best, and Agnes, too, had on her new frock. 
I think she expected to go with us, and Paul 
never dreamed that she was to stay at home. 
I dreaded the poor child’s disappointment. 
Directly after breakfast Paul ran for his hat 
and overcoat. 

“ Why, Agnes, are you not ready yet ? ” he 
said when he came back. 

Agnes looked at her aunt, who said, “ Agnes 
is not going.” 


NURSE HILLYER’s STORY. 65 

“Why not, please, Aunt Wendover ? ” said 
Paul. 

“She has not proper clothes, for one reason.” 

“ Why hasn’t she got them ? I have such 
nice things, and Agnes ought to have them too.” 

“ She has had no need of bonnets and cloaks,” 
said Miss Wendover, quailing a little before 
Paul’s honest eyes. 

“ I am so disappointed. Aunt Wendover, be- 
cause I wanted her to hear the big organ. But 
perhaps you will bu}^ her some new things so she 
can go next Sunday. Will you?” 

Paul laid his hand on hers and patted it 
gently. I w’ondered what she would say to 
him, and as for Agnes, she turned away to hide 
her tears. 

“Really, Aunt Wendover, Agnes ought to 
have a nice hat and cloak, much nicer than 
those she wears to play in. And she needs 
some pretty gloves and a muff like other little 
girls. Oh, I know how they look ; I used to see 
them when I went to church with papa. There 
is John in the • boat ! It must be time to go. 
Please say yes. Aunt Wendover, and then I can 
tell Agnes that she may go next Sunday. 
Perhaps you will feel well enough to go with 
us then.” 

Miss Wendover changed color. “ I hardly 
think so, but Agnes may go if she likes,” she 

5 


66 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


said. “ John is waiting, Hillyer,” she added in 
her usual tone. 

It was the first time I had been to church in 
ten years, for I had grown in the habit of stay- 
ing at home to please Miss Wendover. I 
thought I could read my Bible and keep Sun- 
day at home ; but I did wrong, and I saw it 
after Paul made me go. 

Paul chattered all the way there and back, 
and I suppose he told Miss Wendover all about 
the service. She was in a hard place, and I 
couldn’t see just how she was going to get along 
with Paul. He would soon find out the truth, 
I knew; though he thought then, poor inno- 
cent, that she stayed from church because she 
was ill. As if Alicia Wendover had darkened 
a church-door for eleven years ! She always 
used to go with the other Paul when she was a 
girl. Mr. Wendover didn’t like to have them 
go, but Paul would go. He was a real Chris- 
tian, though I used to think that he wasn’t seri- 
ous enough about some things. But that may 
have been his way. We all have our ways. 

Agnes had the promise of a new hat and pe- 
lisse, and permission to go with us next Sunday, 
This was a great concession for her aunt to 
make. 


CHAPTER V. 

AGNES’ STOEY. 

The same world wears a different aspect as the 
conditions of life vary.— P. Boe. 

T SHALL never forget the first time I ever went 
to church. I was in a state of great ex- 
citement all the previous week, and I know 
that I was unusually obedient. I trembled lest 
my aunt should revoke her consent, and each 
time she looked at me during the week, I ex- 
pected to hear her say, “ Agnes, you may stay 
at home on Sunday.” Perhaps she would l^ave 
said so, but for Paul. 

I kept wondering where my hat and cloak 
were coming from, and as Saturday morning 
dawned, and I heard nothing of them, I began 
to lose all hope. Paul found me standing in 
the window, tracing pictures on the glass with 
my fingers and looking very disconsolate. He 
was all sympathy at once, and he asked what 
was troubling me. I told him, and added, “ I 
wouldn’t mind going in my old things, but 
Aunt Wendover won’t let me, for she said they 
are not decent. I know she has either forgot- 

67 


68 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


ten, or changed her mind, and I may as well 
give up going.” 

Paul’s face wore a look of dismay. “ Dear 
me, Agnes, what a pity you are not a boy, then 
you could have half of my clothes. I have a 
great many more than I need. But I guess 
Aunt Wendover will ’member her promise, but 
I shall go straight and ’mind her of it.” 

“ It won’t do any good now, Paul,” I said, 
despairingly, “for Miss Finch couldn’t make 
my cloak.” 

“Aunt Wendover might buy it all made. 
Mr. Bishop bought some of my things in that 
way, because he was in a hurry. Come with 
me, Agnes, and we’ll see about it.” 

He dragged me to my aunt’s door, and rapped 
courageously. 

“ Who is there?” called Aunt Wendover, in 
no very propitious tone. 

“It’s Paul, Aunt Wendover: Please may I 
come in ? ” he said, as if he knew his name was 
the “ open sesame ” that could unlock that 
door. 

The key turned in the lock, and Aunt Wen- 
dover spoke more graciously. “ Come on, then.” 

Paul went right to her, and putting his hand 
on her shoulder, began, “Aunt Wendover, I 
thought I would come and speak to you about 


AGNES’ STORY. 


69 


Agnes’ things. To-day is Saturday, and to- 
morrow will be Sunday, you know.” 

“ Humph ! What do you want her to have ? ” 

“ Oh, lots of things ! She needs a great many, 
I think. Why don’t she have as nice clothes as 
I do?” Aunt Wendover made no reply, and 
Paul went on, “ You can get her things yet, be- 
cause they keep clothes all made in stores, and 
you have John and lots of boats.” 

I peeped through the crack of the door to 
see how my aunt was taking all this. She was 
busied with her writing, and she seemed not to 
notice the little hand that rested on her shoul- 
der. Paul sighed at last, as she did not stop 
writing. 

“Well, Paul, what do you want me to do? 
This is your own idea, and I expect to be in- 
structed.” 

“Aunt Wendover, you have lots of money, 
haven’t you ? ” 

“ Yes, I have enough. Why ? ” 

“ If I were a grown up woman with a great 
deal of money, I would take Agnes to the city 
and buy her a hat and cloak, so that she could 
go to church.” 

“ Well, you shall have your way. Send Hill- 
yer to me.” 

Paul skipped away on his errand, and he 
presently returned, followed by nurse. 


70 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


“ Hillyer, I want you to take the children to 
the city this afternoon, for Paul wants Agnes 
to be fitted out with clothes. Let them suit 
themselves. I suppose Paul knows what is 
proper, if Agnes does not. Come to me for 
money when you go.’* 

She turned again to her desk, and Paul and 
I scampered away, too happy to contain our- 
selves. It was the first time that I had left the 
Island, and I was so terrified by the rocking of 
the little boat that I should have cried if Paul 
had not assured me that there was no danger. 

When we reached the stores, Paul took the 
lead. Mounted on a stool, he tossed over the 
cloaks on the counter till he found one that 
suited him, and he told me to try it on» It was 
a dark gray cloth, trimmed with fur, and lined 
with cherry-colored satin. It was a perfect fit, 
and Paul gravely told the clerk to do it up. 
Next he ransacked the milliner’s for the hat he 
wanted, and we decided on a broad gray felt 
with a scarlet wing. Some gray gloves were 
added, and a muff to match the fur on my 
cloak, then we were ready to go. 

On the way home, Paul stopped before a 
florist’s window. “ I want to buy some flowers 
for Aunt Wendover,” he said. “ I shall see 
if the flower man has any heliotrope. It is so 
sweet that I like it best of all flowers.” 


AGNES’ STORY. 


71 


He entered the shop and gave his order with 
great dignity, and I admired his self-possession. 
When the flowers were done up, nurse took 
out her purse to pay for them, but Paul said ; 
“ No, thank you, nurse, I have some money,” 
and he felt in the pocket of his skirt for the 
coins. 

“ Aunt Wendover, I have a present for you,” 
he announced, as he reached the house. 

“ A present for me ? ” said my aunt. 

Yes. Do you like heliotrope ? ” and he 
proudly displayed the luxuriant bunch he held. 

“•Yes, I used to be very fond of it. So j^ou 
spent all your money for something for me, did 
you?” 

Paul laughed gleefully as Aunt Wendover 
smelled the flowers, and she really did seem 
pleased. 

“ You ought to have a vase to put them in, 
Aunt Wendover. There is a pretty white 
vase on the parlor mantel. May I get it?” 

Aunt Wendover nodded, and Paul brought 
the vase and arranged the flowers in it. 

“ There ! ” he said, standing at a distance 
to survey his work ; “ I think they look very 
nice. I shall set the vase by your plate. Aunt 
Wendover, and you can see the flowers while 
you eat.” 


72 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


“ Thank you, Paul. What did you buy for 
yourself?” 

“ Nothing. I didn’t want anything. Don’t 
you want to see Agnes’ new things, Aunt 
Wendover? You can’t think how pretty they 
are.” 

“ No, I don’t care about seeing them now, 
but I am glad you are pleased, Paul,” she said. 

I missed the little jar of heliotrope, and I 
wondered what had become of it. But, on 
passing my Aunt’s room next day, I saw it on 
her dressing-table. I was glad to see that she 
appreciated them, and I told Paul where they 
were. 

I was arrayed in my new clothes that morn- 
ing, and for the first time in my life I felt a 
little pleasure in looking in the mirror. When 
I was ready, Paul expressed his approval of 
me. Then he said, “Agnes, you ought to 
thank Aunt Wendover.” 

“ O Paul I can’t, I really can’t. Won’t 
you do it for me ? ” I pleaded. 

“ I did thank her, but that won’t do. You 
should thank her yourself. Come now, before 
Nurse Hilly er is ready.” 

He took my hand, and I followed him. 
Straight to my aunt’s room he went, and said, 
“Aunt Wendover, here is Agnes with her new 
things on. Don’t you think they are pretty ? ” 


AGNES’ STORY. 


73 


“ What do I know about finery ? she said, 
putting on her glasses. “Yes, I dare say they 
will do very well. I hope that Agnes will be- 
have herself in church.” 

“Now, Agnes,” Paul whispered, giving me a 
gentle nudge. 

“ Thank you for buying my clothes,” I said, 
awkwardly. 

“ Hey ? ” said Aunt Wendover. “ What did 
you say ? ” for I had spoken so low that she 
could not hear me. “Is the child tongue- 
tied ? ” she asked, as I scraped the carpet with 
the toe of my shoe, not daring to repeat my 
words. 

But Paul came to my rescue. “Agnes said 
she thanked you for buying her clothes,” he 
explained. 

“ I suppose you told her to say that, for I 
never knew her to thank me for anything be- 
fore.” 

“ Perhaps it was because she is afraid of you. 
Aunt Wendover. Agnes' is not ungrateful, she 
truly isn’t.” 

“ Much you know about ingratitude ! So 
Agnes is afraid of me, hey? I suppose you 
children think that I am an old ogress who is 
fattening you to eat. Is that what you talk 
about when you sit on the stairs? Are you 


74 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


afraid of me ? Own up now.” And she looked 
sharply at Paul. 

“No, ma’am, I am not, because you are very 
good to me. But if I were in Agnes’ place, I 
think I should be afraid of you, just a little 
bit, you know,” said Paul, determined to speak 
the truth, yet not to offend. 

“Well, you may assure Agnes that I shall 
not eat her,” my aunt said grimly. “Nurse 
Hilly er is calling you.” 

It was time to go, and we scampered off to 
the wharf, where we found Nurse Hillyer 
waiting in her best black silk and Paisley 
shawl. 

It was a clear, crisp day in the late autumn, 
and Paul was nearly beside himself with en- 
joyment. The most perfect day in mid-sum- 
mer could not have charmed him more. He 
kept pointing everything out to- me. “ There, 
Agnes, that is the church spire,” he would say, 
or, “how pretty the bells sound upon the 
water ! I think Sunday morning is the nicest 
morning in the week ! ” 

I was struck with awe as we walked up the 
broad aisle. I kept fast hold of Paul’s hand, 
and wondered how he could look so cool and 
collected. He smiled and bowed to some one 
in the pew just across the aisle, and I looked 
and saw Dr. Barnham. Beside him sat a 


AGNES’ STORY. 75 

very pretty lady, and I wondered who she 
was. 

But then the organ began to peal out, and I 
listened intently. “Isn’t it lovely?” Paul 
whispered, and I nodded, for I dared not whis- 
per. The whole service was so new and strange 
to me, that I wanted to cry with fear or delight, 
I hardly knew which. The singing pleased me, 
and to my wonder, Paul sang with the others. 
The reading was from a chapter I had often 
read with Paul, but the prayer puzzled me. It 
was the first time I had heard any one pray be- 
fore an audience. And then came the sermon, 
and I didn’t know whether that was addressed 
to God or to the congregation. I asked Paul 
about it as soon as we left the church, and he 
explained all to me. 

“ When the minister preaches a sermon, that 
is to tell us what to do, and when he prays, he 
talks to God about us, and tells him what we 
need. Isn’t church a nice place, Agnes?” 

“Yes,” I assented, “ but I was almost afraid: 
I felt as if God was there.” 

“He was, but we couldn’t see him. He al- 
ways is where people pray to him and sing 
hymns about him.” 

All this was said as we threaded onr way 
through the streets thronged with worshippers. 
When we reached the wharf we found John 


76 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


waiting for us, and we were swiftly rowed home- 
ward. I sat musing over all that I had heard, 
and Paul softly sang the closing hymn, begin- 
ning, “ Lord of the morning, at whose voice.” 

That afternoon when Paul and I had taken 
the Bible and gone down to the shore, he asked, 
“Agnes, why does Aunt Wendover never go to 
church ? ” 

“I guess she don’t believe in God,” I said. 
But Paul looked so horror-stricken, that I was 
sorry I had told him, and I hastily added, “ you 
know she never goes anywhere. I’ve lived on 
the Island for six years, and I don’t remember 
her going anywhere, only a very few times, 
when she went to see Mr. Bishop. Miller buys 
all her clothes, I guess, and when she wants 
anything, she sends for Dr. Barnham. 

“ O Paul,” I broke off, “ who is that pretty 
woman who sat next to Dr. Barnham? She 
had such pretty hair, and a nice little bonnet ! ” 

“She is his wife, I guess,” said Paul. “I 
shall ask him when I see him. I never saw 
her in church before ; but I have been only 
twice.” 

“ I didn’t know Dr. Barnham had a wife,” I 
said. 

“ Why, everybody has a wife but Hawkins. 
I mean to be married myself when I am a 
man.” 


AGNES’ STORY. 


77 


“ Shall you ? ” I said, “ Aunt W endover isn’t 
married, is she ? ” 

“ Of course not, for she is Miss Wendover,” 
said Paul. 

“ Whom shall you marry when you are a man, 
Paul?” 

“I think I shall marry you, Agnes,” he re- 
plied very gravely. “ I like you better than 
any one else.” 

“ Oh ! ” I said, quite flattered by his prefer- 
ence. “But I shall never be pretty like Dr. 
Barnham’s wife. I shall be ugly, like Aunt 
Wendover, for I look like her now.” 

“Aunt Wendover is not ugly, Agnes. She 
is wrinkled, and her hair is gray ; but I think 
she looks very nice.” 

“ Humph ! ” 

We both started at this exclamation, and 
turned to see Aunt Wendover standing behind 
us. She had come there unknown to us, and 
overheard our conversation. 

“So you think I look very nice, do you, 
Paul?” 

“ Yes ma’am, if you wouldn’t look so sharp 
sometimes,” said Paul, with a little tremor in 
his voice. 

“ So I look sharp, do I ? Agnes, here, thinks 
I am ugly. Don’t you, Agnes ? ” 


78 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


I felt like crawling under one of the rocks, 
but I answered feebly, “ Yes ma'am.” 

“ Good ! ” I always like to see candor. My 
mirror tells the same, so you must be right. 
The weather has changed, and a storm is com- 
ing up. Paul, you must come in, your chest is 
delicate, and you might catch cold.” 

She turned toward the house, and Paul ran 
after her. He took her hand, and they walked 
together. I followed slowly, hanging my head, 
for I felt that I had sealed my doom by my own 
words. 

But to do my aunt justice, I don’t think she 
disliked me for my comments on her looks. 
At any rate, I was glad that I managed to tell 
the truth that Sunday. For I know she hated 
nothing as she hated deceit. 1 had always been 
charged with telling falsehoods, and sometimes 
when in a close place, I would deny something 
that I had done. I had never been told the 
enormity of my sin ; I thought it a very good 
way of escaping punishment. After Paul came, 
I tried to be truthful, and I confessed my faults, 
at the risk of being punished. 

Oh! how hard those days were before Paul 
came to the Island ! Was it any Tvonder that 
T counted myself rich in the love and compan- 
ionship of this loving child ? 


CHAPTER VL 


DR. BARNHAM’s story. 

Back on herself her serpent-pride had curled. 

— Tennyson. 

T DID not go to Wendover House for some time 
after little Paul went there. I knew that 
Miss Wendover had undergone a great deal, and 
I thought she would rather have me stay away 
till some of the strangeness had worn off. But 
I was anxious to see the child, for his father 
was a dear old friend of mine. So I was glad 
when one day Miss Wendover sent for me. 
Paul had a slight cold, and she was alarmed 
about him. She idolized the child already. I 
could see that, though she tried hard to look 
unconcerned. I had known her so long, cold, 
hard, and unfeeling, that it seemed strange to 
see her sit there with her arms about a child. 

In reality, Paul was not ill at all, but I did 
not dare to make too light of his case, or Miss 
Wendover would have thought that I was not 
sufficiently serious. He was not a robust child 
by any means, I saw that at once ; but I did 
not suggest such a thing to Miss Wendover. 

(79) 


80 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


Paul’s father died of consumption, and I 
thought that the child might have inherited it. 
Then I remembered that the father had not an 
even chance. I hoped that the boy would grow 
to manhood, for I foresaw that he would be a 
blessing to Miss Wendover. She had seemed 
turned to stone; but she appeared different 
already. In reality, there seemed to be a 
general waking-up in the old house. All its 
inmates were unlike those of any other house- 
hold that I ever saw. If Miss Wendover knew 
of any person who was bitter enough against 
the whole human race, that person was sure to 
be engaged as her servant. Hawkins, the 
butler, was a misanthrope ; Miller, Miss Wen- 
dover’s maid, had a lover who jilted her, and she 
hates all his sex ; Nurse Hilly er had a worthless 
husband, and after a few years of misery, she 
came back to the island, and Miss Wendover 
made her useful. Barbara was a sour-faced 
damsel, who was obliged to support an inebriate 
father with her earnings. I never knew any- 
thing of the history of the cook and gardener, 
though I imagine they must have had a griev- 
ance, or they could not have remained so long 
in Miss Wendover’s good graces. Well, it was 
a strange, strange house ! 

The best part of Paul’s coming was the 
change in Agnes. Poor little waif! I was 


DR. barnham’s story. 81 

sorry for her all those years penned up in that 
gloomy house, like “ Marianna in her moated 
grange I ” She had a pitiful, frightened expres- 
sion, as if she had been scared once, and had 
never got over it. Miss Wendover was not fit 
to bring up a child. I suppose she thought she 
was doing her duty by Agnes if she clothed, 
fed, and educated her. She never seemed to 
think that the child needed petting. My wife 
and I used to wish that we could adopt her and 
bring her up in a different atmosphere. I once 
ventured to ask Miss Wendover for her, but 
she refused very stiffly. 

It would seem that I had some claim on 
Agnes for her father’s sake, for I loved Robert 
Wendover, despite his haughty spirit that made 
him unbearable to most people. He, Paul 
Raymond, and I, were almost inseparable until 
Robert left, which broke up the trio. After 
that Paul and I were more than ever to each 
other till the trouble happened between him 
and old Mr. Wendover. Poor Paul ! I could 
weep even now over his sad story ! He was so* 
gifted, so handsome, and so fitted to make a 
success of life, that I can not see why it disap- 
pointed him so cruelly. However, we cannot 
always tell success from failure. Perhaps his 
life will be a success when seen in the light of 
eternity, while many a life that the world pro- 


82 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


nounces a brilliant success may be but a miser- 
able failure. At any rate, he walked in his 
integrity, and died a Christian. 

I know very little of Paul’s history after he 
left Wendover Island, for our correspondence 
was irregular, and I never saw him again. He 
never wrote a word of complaint, but the little 
I have been able to gather from the child’s talk 
is enough to tell me of hardship and struggle. 
I feel sure that he died in an almshouse, Paul 
Raymond! And all the time Alicia Wendover 
had more wealth than she knew how to use. 
Ah, well I I do not envy her the thoughts she 
must have had during those long years. It 
seemed that all the good in her nature vanished, 
and all the evil came to the front. Surely, 
“ Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” 
She was not scorned, but she thought she was, 
and that is what worked the evil. It seems so 
strange that because she was disappointed in 
one thing, she should turn into such a miserable, 
misanthropic woman. I think it only reasonable 
that when we lose what seems best in our lives, 
we should make the mast of the blessings we 
have left, and not persistently shut our eyes to 
them, as she did. I don’t see how she managed 
to exist in the lonely life she led. She saw 
nobody, she went nowhere, she had almost no 
intercourse with the outside world. Robert’s 


DR. BAENHAM’S story. 


83 


mesalliance and death, and her own disappoint- 
ment, seemed to change her into something 
without feeling. It was just about eleven years 
from the time Paul left till his child came there. 
Alicia was only thirty -six at the time little 
Paul came, but one would have thought her 
full twenty years older. Such a mark do self- 
ishness and hatred leave upon the face of one 
who harbors them. 

I never could understand why she felt so 
bitterly toward Paul. Of course, it was an 
unfortunate mistake, but it was none the less a 
mistake. It was not any wonder that she loved 
him, brought up together as they were. For 
Paul was old Mr. Wendovers ward, and he 
had lived on the Island from a little child. 
The old gentleman had the match between 
Alicia and Paul planned for years, and when 
Robert left, he disinherited him, and made a 
new will leaving his fortune to Paul and Alicia 
if they married. 

We, Paul and I, for a while pitched our tent in 
a pretty little Kentish town, for Paul was doing 
some sketching near by. It was there that he 
met Muriel Dare, and from the very first I knew 
that Alicia Wendover’s hopes were groundless. 
Paul was a careless, improvident fellow, and, 
indeed, he had no need to be otherwise; for 
Mr. Wendover had always allowed him more 


84 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


than he could spend. Paul had only the merest 
trifle of a fortune of his own, but his guardian 
had been as generous with him as with his own 
son ; more generous, in fact, for he was wont to 
grumble at Robert’s extravagance. I noticed 
that soon after Paul met Muriel Dare, he talked 
of beginning life seriously. I knew what was 
in his mind, and I was sure that he was in earn- 
est. We went home soon after, and he began 
to talk of making music a profession, but Mr. 
Wendover frowned on the idea. He wanted 
Paul to content himself on the Island, and be a 
gentleman of leisure. But Paul could not be 
contented, and the truth came out. He wanted 
to find a way to make a living, and then he 
meant to be married. I suppose there was a 
terrible scene then. He came to bid me good- 
bye, and he said he was going to seek his for- 
tune. It was a sad parting, for we loved each 
other tenderly. I told him that I would not 
say farewell, but Avf Wiedersehen.'^ He shook 
his head, and I think he had forebodings that 
we were parting for the last time. Still, to 
please me, he repeated Auf WiederseJien^ as we 
shook hands, and then he turned away, looking 
back to wave his cap to me. I never saw him 
again. 

After that, Mr. Wendover failed every day. 

* Until we meet again. 


DR. barnham’s story. 85 

He grew even more irritable and unreasonable 
than ever, and it was a dog’s life that Alicia led 
with him. He would allow no one else to wait 
on him, and he wanted her constantly with him. 
Even she could do nothing to suit him, though 
she was a very patient and faithful nurse. She 
felt bitterly toward Paul, poor girl ; but her 
father poisoned her mind. Paul’s own little 
patrimony must have been exhausted long be- 
fore he died, for his last days were spent in ex- 
treme poverty. I would have shared my last 
crust with him had I known of his need. 

I used to attend old Mr. Wendover after my 
father died, for I succeeded to his practice. So 
I saw a good deal of Alicia till her father died. 
After that I saw her but seldom, twice a year, 
perhaps; for I never went to the Island unless 
she sent for me. We never met in a social way 
after Paul left, though up to that time, I was a 
very frequent guest at the house, and Alicia 
and I were the best of friends. When 1 mar- 
ried, she took no notice of the event ; she never 
so much as congratulated me the next time 1 
met her. My wife knew something of her, and 
she was curious to see her. She used to ask 
after my enchanted princess when I came from 
the Island ; for that was a name she had for the 
mysterious lady. Sometimes she declared with 
Betsey Prig, that there was “no sich a person,” 


86 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


but that I had talked about her so long that I 
believed it myself. 

Occasionally some adventurous people who 
had known Miss Wendover well, would put on 
a bold front and attempt to* make a call. But 
all in vain. Either they were told by the sol- 
emn-faced Hawkins that Miss Wendover re- 
ceived no visitors, or else the lady of the manor 
herself met them, and appeared so frigid that 
they were glad to get away. 

Our pastor himself went, but he had no 
better success than others. He felt like the 
leader of a forlorn hope, but he thought he 
had a duty to do. He meant to ask Miss Wen- 
dover to allow Agnes to come to church, even 
if she would not come herself. I met him soon 
after, and asked him about his visit. He shook 
his head. “ I fear nothing can be done with 
that woman, doctor,” said he. “She is a hope- 
less case it seems ; but I am sorry for the child. 
It seems that some one ought to take her away. 
What a life she must lead ! I felt as if I were 
in prison during the few moments I was in the 
house.” 

For Agnes’ sake I used to wish that I had 
occasion to go to the Island oftener. She used 
to watch for my visits, and she seemed happy 
when I talked to her. I always loved children, 
and I would have liked to pet her, only I feared 


DR. barnham’s story. 87 

that her aunt would be sterner than ever, to pay 
for it. My wife used to get very indignant 
over Agnes’ wrongs, and she wanted to do 
something for her. She dressed a doll and sent 
it over by me. Agnes was in the school-room, 
so I was obliged to leave it with Miss Wen- 
do ver, and I am quite certain that Agnes never 
received it. 

I went to the Island one day in answer to 
Miss Wendover’s summons. I found her wait- 
ing for me, and without one word she handed 
me a letter that she held. It was from Paul 
Raymond. He was dying, and he asked her to 
take the child. 

“ Well,” I said as I gave back the letter, 
“ what are you going to do about it ? ’' 

“ There is only one thing to be done. The 
child must come here. It seems that I am 
forced to keep an orphan asylum. First I was 
obliged to send for Agnes, and now for this 
child.” 

“ I have offered to relieve you of Agnes,” I 
said. 

“No, I will bring her up myself; I know 
the training she needs ; you would spoil her. 
I sent for you to ask you if you would go and 
bring the child here. I can’t leave myself, and 
I feel too old to undertake a journey now.” 

“Old!” I laughed, “I call myself no more 


88 


WENDOVER • HOUSE. 


than middle-aged, and I am older by some 
years than you.” 

“ That is nothing to the point. I suppose I 
know how I feel! Can you go? You are the 
best friend I have. I would not send every 
one on such an errand.” 

“ I would like to oblige you, but my wife is 
ill, and I can’t think of leaving her. Send 
Bishop,” I suggested. 

“ I tell you, I would rather trust you ; but, 
of course, I can’t force you to go. Go to 
Bishop yourself ; tell him as much as you think 
necessary, and send him on at once. I need 
not see him first. He has a close enough 
tongue, I guess, but you may as well give him 
a hint.” She went to the secretary, took out a 
roll of bills, and gave them to me, saying, 
“ Give this money to Mr. Bishop, and tell him 
to see that the child is suitably dressed before 
he brings him here.” 

She rose as if to terminate the interview. I 
did her errand to Bishop, and the next morning 
he set out. 

As I said, I did not see the child except at 
church for some time after he came to the 
Island. For he did go to church, and so did 
Agnes.' The curly-headed boy effected what 
the gray-haired divine could not bring about. 
I fear that a good portion of the congregation 


DR. BARNHAM’S story. 


89 


forgot themselves and stared in wonder as 
Nurse Hillyer walked up the aisle, followed by 
those two children. They were a striking look- 
ing pair. Paul, a beautiful blonde, was dressed 
in a picturesque suit of black velvet, with his 
light curls hanging over his shoulders, and such 
a reverent look on his face. Agnes was his exact 
opposite. She looked like a little gipsy in her 
red and gray suit and her broad hat. I was 
surprised at the sight of them, and my wife fell 
in love with them at once. Agnes appeared 
like a cat in a strange garret, but Paul was per- 
fectly at home. He opened his book and joined 
in the hymn. 

Poor little Agnes ! I believe if Paul had not 
come, she would have died from sheer loneli- 
ness. Besides, she studied too hard, her brain 
was overworked. Ever since she was old 
enough to read. Miss Wendover had left her 
lessons in charge of Miss Manning. I had 
pitied Agnes all those years, and I wondered if 
Miss Wendover would place Paul in Miss Man- 
ning’s hands. So I was glad when she asked 
my advice about a suitable teacher for Paul, 
and I recommended a cousin of mine by the 
name of Arthur Grey. He was about nineteen 
years old, and in poor health. The foolish fel- 
low had almost killed himself studying, and he 
was obliged to leave college for awhile. 


90 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


I did my duty in regard to Agnes. I told 
her aunt that Miss Manning’s cramming process 
was injuring the child, and I warned her tO fol- 
low a different plan in the future. Agnes had 
been crowded ahead, till in some studies she 
was sufficiently advanced for a girl of fifteen. 
She needed more play and less Latin, and I 
told Miss Wendover so, very plainly. 

For a wonder. Miss Wendover liked Arthur. 
She put both children. in his care, and allowed 
him to use his judgment about their studies. 
He lightened Agnes’ burdens at once, and she 
seemed much relieved. Agnes and Paul loved 
him at once, and they would meet him at the 
wharf every morning, and accompany him there 
every night. It was an excellent thing for Ar- 
thur, too, for the daily row to the Island was 
just the exercise he needed. 


CHAPTER VIL 


AGNES’ STORY. 

All familiar things he touched, 

All common words he spake, became to me. 
Like forms and sounds of a dinner world. 

Shelley. 

^HE days flew so fast after Paul came, that 
winter was gone, and spring was with us 
before we realized it. Paul and I had so much 
to occupy our minds, that we hardly noted how 
time sped. We had our lessons, our play, our 
hours and hours of reading, to say nothing of 
the favorite amusement of all, castle-building. 

Without being ill, Paul had been quite deli- 
cate all winter, and during the coldest weather, 
Aunt Wendover kept him indoors ; for our cli- 
mate was more severe than that he had been 
accustomed to. But despite all Aunt Wen- 
dover’s precaution, he took a very heavy cold 
toward the last of April, and it was followed 
by congestion of the lungs. He was ill for a 
long time, and Dr. Barnham came twice every 
day. Indeed, when the disease was at its 
height, my aunt made him spend all his time 
there. I think she suffered terribly in those 

( 91 ) 


92 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


days when Paul’s life hung in the balance. I 
know I never saw her so moved. 

I often heard the servants talking that it was 
likely that Paul would die, and then I would go 
to the dark stairway and think hopelessly what 
the future would be without him. “I can’t 
bear it, I can’t bear it ! ” I would keep saying, 
all the time shedding passionate tears. Dr. 
Barnham found me there one day when Paul 
was perhaps worse than usual. I heard him 
coming, but I supposed it was Hawkins, and I 
crouched close to the banister, trying to escape 
his notice. But Dr. Barnham’s voice said, 
“What, Agnes? Here all alone, and crying, 
too, I’ll be bound ! ” He lifted me on his knee, 
and talked to me so kindly that I cried the 
harder. I was unused to kindness from any 
one except Paul ! Presently the doctor asked 
me if I had taken any breakfast, and when I 
confessed that I had not^so much as thought of 
it, he led me to the dining-room, and ringing 
the bell, ordered a lunch. When it came, he 
sat down by me, and poured my milk and cut 
my meat, making me eat till I lost my faint- 
ness and felt stronger. When I insisted that 
I could not eat any more, he took me on his 
knee again, and without talking he held me 
there a long time, smoothing the hair that was 
tangled, for in my misery I had not thought of 


AGNES’ STORY. 


93 


making myself neat. I felt a blessed sense of 
comfort as I nestled close to him, and I lost the 
feeling of utter wretchedness that I had borne 
so long. At last I nerved myself to ask the 
question that trembled on my lips. 

“ Dr. Barnham, will Paul die? ” I said, fight- 
ing back the tears. 

“ Poor little Agnes ! Now listen to me. 
Paul has been very, very ill, and is so still. 
We cannot tell just how it will end, but I have 
strong hopes that he will get well.” 

I couldn’t keep back the tears, for I felt that 
the doctor was keeping the worst from me. 

“ Would you like to see Paul?” he asked. 

“ Oh ! can I see him ? ” I cried eagerly. 

“I don’t see why not if you will be very 
quiet. You must not talk at all, and Paul can- 
not speak to you. He wants to see you.” 

“ How do you know ? ” I asked, happy in the 
thought that Paul wished for me even in his 
sickness. 

“ He has asked for you several times, and 
this morning I promised him that you should 
come. He is sleeping now, but when he wakes 
I will come for you. Go and tidy your hair 
and make yourself neat, so you will look nice. 
Be a little woman, Agnes, and don’t let Paul see 
that you are worried over him.” 

When he left the room I fled up-stairs to 


94 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


make myself ready. I brushed my hair till it 
shone, then I opened the wardrobe and took 
out the crimson dress that Paul liked. Then I 
sat down to await the doctor’s summons. I 
thought ho would never come, and the time 
lagged heavily. I could not interest myself in 
reading, so I watched the raindrops as they 
trickled down the window-pane. At last the 
doctor tapped at my door. “ Come,” he said, 
“ Paul is awake now.” 

I grasped his hand. “ Aunt Wendover won’t 
let me come in the room,” I said. 

“ Yes, she will. She won’t contradibt the 
doctor's orders. And I am sure that you are 
just the medicine that Paul needs. I am glad 
to say that he has had a refreshing sleep, and 
he seems brighter. So come on, my little 
woman, and make your first visit to a sick- 
room.” 

I kept behind him as he opened the door of 
Paul’s room, for I was afraid of what Aunt 
Wendover might say. She sat at the foot of 
the bed watching Paul intently. As soon as 
she saw me she looked displeased. 

“ Now, doctor — ” she began. 

But Dr. Barnham shook his head. “ She will 
be quiet. I’ll risk Agnes,” he safd. “ And it 
will do Paul good to have her here.” 

“ I presume you know what you are about, so 


AGNES’ STORY. 


95 


let her stay,” she said, quite meekly for Aunt 
Wendover. 

Paul smiled when he saw me. I crept up to 
the little bed, and we clasped hands. 

“Now, youngsters, no talking,” said the 
doctor. “ Agnes may stay here so long as you 
are quiet, but at the first attempt to talk, out 
she goes.” He spoke in a gruff way, but he 
smiled, and I was not frightened in the least. 

I stayed there all day, and no one molested 
me. Paul smiled when he looked at me, and 
we seemed to understand each other from the 
touch of our hands, so speech was unnecessary. 

Paul grew better soon after, and in a few 
days I was allowed to read to him. It was a 
long time before he was around again, and after 
he was able to be dressed, he was still very 
weak. Dr. Barnham watched him closely, and 
I guessed that he was not satisfied with his 
progress. 

One day I overheard the doctor and my aunt 
talking in the hall.' I caught these words, 
“ Better take both children to the sea-shore.” 

“ I had thought of taking Paul. There is 
no need for Agnes to go. She shall stay at 
home and go on with her lessons.” 

I strained my ears to catch the doctor’s an- 
swer, for I was sure that he would put in a 
plea for me. 


96 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


“ Do you think you could get Paul to go 
without Agnes ? ” he asked. “ He wouldn’t 
improve if he was alone. Follow my advice, 
Miss Wendover. Take both children and let 
them do just as they like all the time. Sea air 
will do you good, too ; you are worn out with 
all your watching.” 

In a few days my aunt, Paul and I and Mil- 
ler set out for the sea-shore. I did not like the 
sea at first, but Paul was nearly wild with de- 
light, and before long I was as fond of it as he 
was. He improved rapidl}^ after we got there. 
We dug in the sand, gathered shells, paddled 
in the water, or oftener still, lay on the beach 
and told stories as we did at home. Even my 
inexperienced eyes saw that Paul was gaining 
strength, and my cup of happiness was full. 

One sunny morning as we sat on the beach, 
Paul remarked, “Don’t you think the sea is 
very pretty this morning, Agnes ^ It makes 
me feel very happy, and I have had poetry 
running through my head all the morning.” 

“ O Paul ! ” I cried. “ Will you please make 
some poetry now ? I have never heard any of 
your poetry, though I know you are clever 
enough to do anything.” 

“ I often make it, but I can’t write well, and 
I always forget it. I wish I could write as 
quickly and nicely as you can, Agnes.” 


AGNES’ STOEY. 


97 


“ I’ll write everything down for you, Paul,” 
I said. “ I have a pencil in my pocket, and I 
can tear a leaf out of ‘ Sandford and Merton.’” 
I did so, and sat with my pencil poised while I 
waited for him to begin. 

“ You must not hurry me, Agnes, for some- 
times I can’t find any words at all. I think 
they will come this morning, though, if I take 
time.” 

“ Here are some,” he said at length, when I 
had just put an extra fine point on my pencil. 
In my haste I broke it off, and then I had to 
sharpen it again. 

“ I am ready, Paul. Now do begin,” I said. 

** The sea is very sweet, 

And its waves lap my feet. 

The sky is very blue, 

And the world is very new. 

“ That last line means that the world is 
pretty to-day. It is all washed clean after the 
shower, and it looks as if God had just made it 
all hew,” Paul explained. 

“ Go on, Paul ! Make some more,” I cried, 
in admiration. “ That is lovely. That isn’t 
all of it, is it ? ” I asked, for he lay quietly 
looking at a distant sail. 

“I’ll try, Agnes. I am thinking all the 
time. Sometimes it is very hard work to make 
poetry. I guess I have another verse now.” 

7 


98 


WENDOVBR HOUSE. 


“ My heart is very light, 

And the world is very bright ; 

The pretty flowers smile 
And blossom all the while.” 

“ That is pretty,” I said, making some extra 
flourishes to my capitals in honor of Paul’s 
poetry. “ Oh ! how I wish I could be clever 
like you, Paul ! ” 

“ I am not very clever, Agnes ; but some day 
I mean to be. I’ll tell you what I mean to do 
when I am a man, Agnes.” He lowered his 
voice almost to a whisper as he added, “ I mean 
to make books.” 

“ Why, Paul. Do people make books ? ” I 
asked. 

“ Of course,” he answered, with superior 
wisdom. “ How would we have any to read if 
somebody didn’t make them?” 

“I never thought about it before,” I said. 
“ I know you can write books if anybody can. 
Will you let me write them down for you like 
the poetry ? ” 

“ Of course, if you like. But I must learn 
to write better. I am getting to be a big boy, 
and I am mortified about my writing.” 

Paul brought out the long word in a way 
that I thought very grand. Then he added, 
“ I’ve thought of another verse, Agnes. 


AGNES’ STORY. 


99 


** If I should die to-day, 

And soar so far away, 

Beyond the ” 

“ Now, Paul, don’t talk about dying,” I cried. 
“ I shan’t write any more,” and I scratched 
out the last two lines. 

“ But, Agnes, we must die sometime. I was 
just thinking that I would like to die on a day 
like this, when the world is so pretty. I 
thought that I might die when I was so sick 
last spring.” 

“Were you afraid, Paul?” I asked in a 
whisper. 

“ No, Agnes, I don’t think I was. You see, 
there is notliing to be afraid of. Jesus takes 
care of us when we are dying, and when we 
get to heaven we are always with him. Be- 
sides, my papa and mamma are there. So you 
see I had nothing to be afraid of.” 

“ O Paul ! I can’t bear to hear you talk so. 
You are so good that I am afraid you will die. 
What should I do without you ? If you 
weren’t here nobody would make Aunt Wen- 
dover be good to me.” 

Paul patted my hand and said, “ There, stop 
crying, Agnes, and we won’t make any more 
poetry. I am getting better, for Dr. Barnham 
said so. Come, let’s look for sea-urchins.” 

I dried my tears and followed him. He must 


100 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


have meant to reassure me, for all the rest of 
the day he was in the wildest spirits. He never 
again referred to the poetry, but when I emp- 
tied my pockets that night I put the crumpled 
piece of paper among my treasures. I saw it 
not long ago. Years have passed since that 
morning, but I remember it as well as if it had 
been yesterday. 

Aunt Wendover was almost kind, even to 
me. Dr. Barnham came and spent a week 
with us, bringing his wife with him. This was a 
pleasant surprise, and Mrs. Barnham was a de- 
lightful revelation. She was the first pretty 
woman I had ever seen. My aunt had once 
been handsome, and even then her features were 
fine, but I thought her positively ugly. All the 
servants at the Island were quite as bad, except 
Nurse Hillyer, who looked better to me. But 
Mrs. Barnham was very pretty, even in her 
manner. There was nothing frigid or over dig- 
nified about her, and one could not help loving 
her. She was plump and blue-eyed and brown- 
haired, and she was always busied with some 
wonderful fancy-work. I used to hang around 
her chair, and Paul was her devoted admirer. 
He picked up her pocket-handkerchief, held her 
worsted, and gathered flowers for her to wear. 

Altogether she seemed to be just the woman 
for Dr. Barnham, and when she said that we 


AGNES’ STORY. 


101 


must come often to see her when she went 
home, I began to cherish a hope that Aunt 
Wendover would not refuse her consent if Paul 
wished to go. I think Mrs. Barnham tried very 
hard to be friendly with my aunt, but she made 
little progress. My aunt was merely polite, and 
Miller looked askance at the pretty little woman. 

After the week ended. Dr. Barnham returned 
home, but Mrs. Barnham remained, and in 
a few days Mr. Grey came. The sea air did 
wonders for him, as well as for Paul, and we 
enjoyed his company very much. We were to- 
gether all the time, that is, Mrs. Barnham, Mr. 
Grey, Paul and I ; for Aunt Wendover stayed 
quietly in the hotel nearly all the time. 

The summer passed too quickly, and we be- 
gan to make ready to return home. Paul’s 
cheeks were rosy, and his fair complexion was 
burned by the sun and wind ; altogether he 
looked very unlike the boy that had come to 
the sea-shore three months before. Mr. Grey, 
too, seemed better, so much so that he began to 
talk of resuming his studies. But the doctor 
would not hear of such a thing ; so we did not 
lose our teacher just then. 

One day early in September, we stepped upon 
the wharf at Wendover Island. I felt a sudden 
sinking of heart at the sight of the house, and I 
sighed as I thought of the pleasant days that 


102 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


were behind me. But Paul was there, dancing 
around as if pleased with everything, and I 
could not long be sorry. 

“ Come, Agnes,” he said, “ let’s go and see 
the calf and the chickens. Oh, there’s Bruno ! ” 
And he stooped to pat the head of the great 
hound who ran to meet him. The creature 
stood in front of me wagging his tail, and re- 
garding me mildly, and Paul said, “ Pat him, 
Agnes, you needn’t be afraid of him. He is 
glad to- see us.” 

So for the first time in my life I patted the 
dog’s head, and allowed him to lick my hands. 
I had always been mortally afraid of him, but 
now I think he understood that we were friends. 

We roamed all over the Island till the dinner- 
bell rang. Aunt Wendover stood in the din- 
ing-room window. She had changed her travel- 
ing dress for the usual house dress of black 
silk, and I thought that her face, too, had 
changed, that it wore its old set look. 

But it lighted up as Paul came in all rosy 
from his exercise. We had not changed our 
clothes, but no accident had happened to him, 
while I had been* so unfortunate as to tear a 
great rent in my frock. I knew that I deserved 
a rebuke, but Paul averted the blow. 

“ Oh dear. Aunt Wendover, I ’spose Agnes 
and 1 look dreadful ; but can’t we please eat just 


AGNES’ STORY. 


103 


as we, are this once ; for we are so tired and 
hungry ! Seems to me I could eat the dishes 
up.” 

Aunt Wendover smiled. “ Well, sit down as 
you are, since you are so hungry. I want you 
to be hungry, then you will grow to be a stout 
man.” 

“ I mean to be,” said Paul, as he dispatched 
his soup, I mean to be fat when I grow up, fat- 
ter than Dr. Barnham. 

“ Say, Auntie Wendover, Agnes and I have 
been all over the Island, and I am glad to get 
home again. I like home better yet than the 
sea-shore.” 

I think it pleased my aunt that he loved the 
Island ; for she loved every stick and stone on 
it. But she made no reply, she merely sent 
Hawkins to bring a jar of currant jelly, which 
was an especial favorite of Paul’s. 

After supper Paul and I made the tour of the 
house, then he played for me for a long time. 
I was sure that Aunt Wendover was in the 
next room listening. If she was, she must 
have become reconciled to the sound of the 
piano. After that w'e went to the library, and 
sitting by the open window, we lived over the 
summer, and made plans for the pleasant au- 
tumn days. 

When the clock struck eight I found myself 


104 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


in my own little room, and after I was in bed I 
began to feel more at home, for the white cur- 
tained windows looked out upon the water, and 
I could hear the ripple washing against the 
shore. And so ended my first visit to the out- 
side world. I fell asleep wondering when I 
should have another. 


CHAPTER VIIL 

AGNES’ STOEY. 

We speak of educating our children. Do we know 
that our children also educate us ? — Mrs, Sigourney, 

Sunday a returned missionary occupied 
our pulpit, and instead of the regular ser- 
mon by the good pastor, we listened to a spir- 
ited address from the stranger. Paul and I 
heard much that was new to us, and we went 
home full of excitement. 

On our way out we stopped to speak to Dr. 
Barn ham, and the pastor came up to shake 
hands with us, and inquired our names. Paul 
spoke his plainly enough, but I don’t think he 
heard mine. ^ 

“ Will you stay to Sunday-school? ” the min- 
ister asked. “We have it directly.” 

“Thank you,” said Paul. “We would like 
to stay, but John is waiting with the boat.” 

“ Where do you live, that you go home in a 
boat?” 

“On Wendover Island. Miss Wendover is 
our aunt,” said Paul. 

The minister managed to cover his surprise, 

( 105 ) 


106 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


then he turned to speak a few words to Dr. 
Barnham. 

At dinner that day Paul said, “Aunt Wen- 
dover, the minister shook hands with us this 
morning, and I asked him to come and see us. 
Do you know him. Aunt Wendover?” 

“Not very well. So you asked him to call, 
did you?” 

“Yes, I did. Was that polite? I thought 
it was.” 

“Very polite. You are quite a Chesterfield, 
Paul.” 

“ Who is he ? ” Paul inquired. 

“He was famous for his manners. You can 
read about him and save me the trouble of tell- 
ing you.” 

“ Papa was very polite, and people liked him. 
I mean to be just like papa when I am a man. 
Do you think I look like him. Aunt Wen- 
dover?” • 

“ I dare say you will.” 

“You knew papa. Aunt Wendover, didn’t 
you ? ” 

“Yes, very well; but don’t ask any ques- 
tions,” replied my aunt ; and I noticed that she 
stooped to pick up her napkin instead of tell- 
ing Hawkins to do it. 

“ Aunt Wendover, why do people never come 
here ? ” Paul asked, as if a new idea had struck 


AGNES' STORY. 


107 


him. “I have been here a long time, and I 
haven't seen anybody but Dr. Barnham and the 
grocer-man and the butcher-man. Why don’t 
we have company as papa and mamma did ? ” 

“Did you have much company?” my aunt 
asked, evading his question. 

“ Oh, a lot of people used to come in the 
evening. Papa would play and mamma would 
sing, and everybody had a good time. Mamma 
used to look so pretty then ; she used to wear 
a white dress and put flowers in her hair. 
Would it make your head ache to have com- 
pany?” 

“ I think it would, Paul. I am an old wo- 
man, and I can’t learn new ways.” 

“ Why, Aunt Wendover, you are not so very 
old. Your hair is almost black, and my papa’s 
was gray when God took him away. Aunt 
Wendover, I wish Agnes and I could stay to 
Sunday-school. They have such a pretty 
chapel, and I am sure it must be very nice to 
have Sunday-school in there. I used to go to 
Sunday-school with mamma, and I liked it so 
much. You know you learn all about Jesus 
there, and you sing hymns and put money in 
the basket to send Bibles to poor children. 
Isn’t it a dreadful thing, Aunt Wendover, that 
there are so many children and grown-up peo- 


108 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


pie in the world who know nothing about 
God?” 

Paul slipped from his chair and went over to 
Aunt Wendover. He was perfectly uncon- 
scious, his eyes were larger even than usual, 
and they shone with the message he had to de- 
liver. “ Why, Aunt Wendover,” he went on, 
“ the missionary man told us that way off in 
India, people put their little children in the 
river and let the crocodiles eat them, because 
they think their make-believe gods will be 
pleased. And they say their prayers to such 
awful wooden and stone things they call gods. 
Just as if such a god could take care of them ! 
Of course these people can’t be blamed if they 
don’t know about our God. And the man said 
that we should be thankful that we lived in such 
a ’lightened country. He said a great deal more 
that I wanted to tell you, but I can’t ’member 
it all. Isn’t it dreadful that people don’t know 
about our God, Aunt Wendover? ” 

He looked up in her face, and she was forced 
to nod her assent. 

“ It makes me feel badly when I think about 
it, and I think that when I am a man I shall 
study their language and go to one of those 
dreadful places and teach them about the Bible. 
But it will be a long time before I can go,” he 
sighed, “ and there don’t seem to be much for 


AGNES’ STORY. 


109 


children to do, ’cept to give money, and I 
haven’t any. And how are the heathen to get 
to heaven if they don’t know about God ? ” 

“ If you want to give money I will give you 
some,” said my aunt. 

“ Thank you. Aunt Wendover, but it wouldn’t 
be my money. If you will give me some I’ll 
give it to the minister and tell him that you 
sent it.” 

“ No, you must not do that. If I give you 
money it is just as much yours as if you earned 
it.” As she spoke she took a shining gold 
piece from her purse and gave it to him. 

He took it reluctantly, saying, “ The mis- 
sionary man said we should give till we felt it, 
and I am sure that I shall not feel this at all. 
I feel as if I ought to tell the minister that this 
is yours.” 

Aunt Wendover shook her head. “ But it is 
not mine. I gave it to you ; you may spend it 
for candy or give it to the heathen, just as you 
please.” 

“Thank you very much, Aunt Wendover, 
but ” 

“ Well, what else ? Isn’t it enough ? ” 

“ I didn’t mean that. I think Agnes would 
like to send some money to the heathen, too. 
She feels so sorry for them.” 

“ Oh, you want Agnes to have some money,” 


110 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


and Aunt Wendover took out another gold 
piece and gave it to Paul, who tossed it into 
my lap. 

“Now I presume all the heathen will have 
Bibles and hymn-books,” said my aunt. 

“ O Aunt Wendover ! there are so many, you 
can’t think. And it costs a great deal to send 
missionaries to them.” 

Next day Paul renewed the subject, saying, 
“Aunt Wendover, I want to earn some money. 
I am quite strong, and I can do a good many 
things. If you are willing, I think I can do 
John’s work, and I won’t charge very much. I 
want to make some money to give away.” 

“ Perhaps I can give you more money, but I 
hardly think you could fill John’s place.” 

“ It is very nice of you to give me money ; 
but won’t you please let me earn some?” 

I suppose she could not withstand the plead- 
ing face, and she said, “ I want some one to 
read the papers to me, for my eyes are getting 
poor. I will pay you ten cents an hour if you 
like.” 

“ I am afraid that is too much, for I can’t 
pronounce the hard words.” 

“Never mind, if I choose to pay it.” 

“And what can Agnes do. Aunt Wen- 
dover ? ” 

“ Agnes ? Does she want to earn money 


AGNES’ STORY. 


Ill 


too? She may ask Nurse Hillyer for some 
towels to hem, aud if she does them neatly, 
nurse may pay her what her work is worth.” 

“Isn’t Aunt Wendover getting good?” I 
said, as Paul and I turned toward the school- 
room. 

“ Yes, isn’t it lovely that we can earn 
money? ” he answered. “ We can earn ever so 
many Bibles. See, there is Mr. Grey coming 
up the walk. Let’s run and meet him.” 

We had grown very fond of Mr. Grey, and 
the lesson hours were pleasant ones. He had a 
way of making us see the bright side of the 
dullest studies. On pleasant days we used to 
leave the school-room and take our books down 
under the trees by the shore. Then, when our 
lessons were done, 'we used to have the most 
delightful talks. We told him all our troubles, 
and he gave us wise counsel. This morning 
Paul imparted our plans about earning mission- 
ary money. Mr. Grey had heard the sermon 
that had so aroused us, and he was in sympa- 
thy with us. Paul also told him his plan for 
going out to save the heathen. 

“ You see, Mr. Grey,” he explained, “ I am 
going to grow very wise, as wise as you are, 
and then I am going to some of those far-off 
places and tell the people how good God is, 
and how foolish it is to worship idols. That 


112 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


must be what the Bible means where it says 
‘ eyes have they but they see not, ears have 
they but they hear not.’ Now the real God 
hears us and sees us all the time. I should 
think everybody would want to go and teach 
the heathen.” 

Mr. Grey laid his hand on Paul’s. “ My 
dear child,” he said, “people are very human, 
and these countries lay a long way off, and 
there are great dangers to be gone through. 
Besides, some of us have duties nearer home, 
and some ” — he spoke sadly — “ have not suffi- 
cient strength.” 

“ I know it is a long way to China, for it is 
right underneath us, and I should have to sail 
half way around the earth.” And Paul opened 
his geography and began tracing his route with 
his index finger. I began to feel very lonely at 
the prospect of Paul’s leaving me, but I con- 
soled myself with the thought that he could 
not go for a great many years. Besides, I had 
reason to think that Aunt Wendover would 
veto any such plan. 

For a long time Paul’s mind ran on his mis- 
sionary money. He read the papers to Aunt 
Wendover, running to search the dictionary 
for the meaning of every new word, and dis- 
cussing the news with the air of a politician. 
I think his opinions of the Irish question, and 


AGNES’ STORY. 


113 


his criticisms of Bismarck’s policy must have 
amused my aunt, for she smiled now and then. 
She very often complained of her eyes, and it 
was a very common thing for her to call Paul 
to read to her. He kept an account of the 
time he spent reading, and every Saturday 
Aunt Wendover settled with him. She wished 
him to acquire business habits, and she taught 
him to make out his bills, and then he carefully 
receipted them. I tried to earn my mite, too, 
but I disliked sewing, and therefore I was 
awkward at it. It took quite a while for me 
to hem a towel to suit Nurse Hillyer, and many 
were the stitches that I had to pick out. So 
my contributions to the missionary box were 
small and infrequent. I was more deft at 
housework, so I sometimes helped Nurse Hill- 
3^er dust the furniture. But I was happiest 
when she allowed me to help her in the store- 
room, and I enjoyed pasting labels on her jars 
of preserves and pickles. 

An incident happened about this time that 
will serve to show the trend of Paul’s mind. 
We had been over to the city with nurse, to 
buy some clothing. It was a keen, frosty day, 
and our warm wraps were very comfortable, as 
we breasted the wind. We made our pur-' 
chases, Paul buying a new overcoat that Aunt 
Wendover fancied he needed, and we were on 
8 


114 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


our way home when on the corner of a street 
we met the most forlorn object I had ever seen. 
It was a lad of Paul’s Rge ; he was very scant- 
ily clothed, and his face was pinched with 
hunger. It was the first time that Paul real- 
ized that there was such destitution in the 
world, and he seemed greatly shocked. 

He stopped before the boy and asked, “ Is 
that all the clothes you have ? ” 

The boy nodded, and drew his ragged coat 
around him. 

“ Have you no overcoat ? ” was Paul’s next 
question. 

“ No, I never had one, nor I never expect to 
have one.” 

Quick as a flash Paul stripped the new over- 
coat from his shoulders, and held it out to the 
boy, who hardly comprehended his action. 
“ Take it, I don’t need it. I have another one,” 
said Paul, and he took the old overcoat from 
the package and put it on. 

“ My eye ! But it’s a nice one,” said the 
strange boy as he buttoned Paul’s new coat 
around him. “ Won’t your marm scold you for 
giving this away ? ” 

“ I have no mamma, but I have an aunt who 
takes care of me. She is very good, and she 
gives me money to send to the heathen.” 

All this time Nurse Hillyer had stood as if 


AGNES’ STORY. 


115 


rooted to the spot, but now she found her voice. 
“Master Paul, master Paul, come on, before 
you get into any more mischief.” 

But Paul did not heed her, he was too intent 
watching the strange lad. 

“ Are you hungry ? ” he asked, “ you look as 
if you might be.” 

“ I’m always hungry,” the boy answered, 
winking hard to keep back a suspicious mist 
that Paul’s kind words had brought to his eyes. 

Paul pulled at nurse’s dress. “Nurse Hilly er, 
let me have some money to buy this boy some 
supper. I’ll pay you when we get home.” He 
took the money and thrust it into the other 
boy’s hand, saying, “ Get something nice and 
hot, roast beef and pudding and coffee and ” 

But Nurse Hillyer hurried Paul away in 
spite of his protestations that he must find out 
the boy’s name. 

“ What your aunt will say to your giving 
away that coat, I’m sure I don’t know,” she 
said. 

“Aunt Wendover and I understand each 
other,” said Paul quietly. For my part, I was 
quite indignant at what I considered her inter- 
ference. 

I suppose she told her mistress, for when 
Paul and I saw Aunt Wendover next, she in- 
quired, “ Well, Paul, where is your new coat ? ” 


116 


WENDOVEE HOUSE. 


His face flushed a deep red, and he went and 
stood by her chair. “Aunt Wendover, I gave 
it to a poor boy. He had none, and I had two ; 
I couldn’t keep both ! Besides, Christ says 
that he that hath two coats should give to 
him that hath none.” 

“ But why didn’t you give the old coat to the 
beggar? It surely was good enough for him.” 

“ Christ says, ‘ He that giveth to the poor 
lendeth to the Lord.’ And if Christ were here, 
I wouldn’t give him my oldest overcoat.” 

Aunt Wendover seemed to have no answer 
to make. At last she asked, “ Do you expect 
to wear your old coat this winter ? ” 

“ Of course I do, I am willing to do it.” 

That night Paul lay on his little bed moaning 
as if in pain, and my aunt went to him, asking 
him if he felt ill. 

“No, I am not ill.” 

“ Then you must have been dreaming,” she 
said, “for you moaned.” 

“ I can’t sleep for thinking of the pain of the 
world. O, Aunt Wendover, there are so many 
cold and hungry people, and we have so much 
more than we need ! I can’t forget how others 
suffer! It seems wrong to lie here safe and 
warm, when many other children quite as good 
as I have no beds and no homes ! ” 


AGNES’ STOEY. 


117 


“Paul, you must not be so silly,” said my 
aunt. “ You can’t help it, can you? ” 

“ I might help a little now ; but I mean to do 
a great deal when I am a man.” 

“ Then wait till you are a man. Go to sleep 
now, like a sensible boy.” 

“ This is a pretty state of things ! ” I heard 
her say, as she passed my door. “ The child 
will go mad if I don’t do something. I must 
send for Dr. Barnham.” 

Next day the doctor came. I was in the ad- 
joining room, and I caught some of the con- 
versation between him and my aunt. 

“ I don’t like it,” I heard her say. “ He is 
constantly brooding over other people’s troubles. 
He cries in his sleep, and talks about relieving 
the world’s misery. I feel as if I have a new 
Buddah on my hands. I wish I had kept him 
closely on the Island ! He sees too much when 
he leaves it.” 

“ He will have to know all this sooner or 
later, Alicia. I didn’t mean to say that. 
Excuse me.” 

“ I don’t mind. Go on with what you were 
saying. I want to know just what you think 
of Paul. Is his brain in a healthy state ? ” 

“ His brain is all right, but he has more heart 
than most people have. That is no harm, 
though.” 


118 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


“ I am not so sure that it is no harm. I don’t 
want him to go mooning around the world in 
the way he has begun. Besides, I am afraid he 
will die young, he is so good.” 

“Nonsense !” said the doctor stoutly. “It is 
only in story books that the good children die. 
More likely that Paul will live and develop into 
a philanthropist. How would you like that ? ” 

“ He may be what he likes if he will grow up 
strong and well. I’ll tell you the truth, I 
wouldn’t lose him for all the Wendover money 
ten times over ! ” 

“ He is a fine child, and he will be a credit 
to you yet. Arthur says that he has an excel- 
lent mind, and Agnes, too, he calls her a very 
bright girl.” 

“ Agnes ? I never thought her very brill- 
iant. She isn’t much like the Wendovers, ex- 
cept in looks. I wish Robert had married more 
sensibly.” 

“ His wife was a good woman, I guess ? ” 

“ Humph ! She was a Roman Catholic.” 

“ What difference, when you deny all 
creeds ? ” asked the doctor. 

I imagined that Aunt Wendover was embar- 
rassed, for she was silent a while. When she 
did speak, it was to say, “ I am afraid to let 
Paul have his way. He does the most Quix- 


AGNES’ STORY. 


119 


otic things ! ” And then she told about his 
overcoat. 

Dr. Barnham laughed heartily. “ Good,” he 
said. “Let him go. You have money enough; 
there is no fear that he will make you bank- 
rupt. If I were you, I would let him wear his 
old coat all winter. Don’t spoil his happiness 
by giving him a new one. If it is some self- 
denial, all the better. He has a warm heart.” 

“ Yes, I know, but I wish he was more prac- 
. tical. Now Agnes would not have done any- 
thing like that.” 

“ Agnes might have wished to do it, but she 
would never have dared. She has too much 
fear of you.” 

“ I am not harsh to the child, doctor. At 
least, I don’t mean to be. But what course 
would you advise me to follow with Paul ? I 
sometimes wish, that he was a coarse, healthy 
child, and less of a girl. He is too delicate.” 

“ He will come out all right. Miss Wendover. 
His father would never have died of consump- 
tion if he. had not been worked and worried 
into it. Excuse me, Alicia ! I don’t mean to 
be offensive, but I want to prove to you that 
Paul has a good chance for a long life. Make 
him read less and take more exercise. Send 
him out to shovel snow till he is tired. As 
soon as spring comes, set him to work in the 


120 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


garden. Both children have their heads too 
full of books. I am going to send Arthur over 
with a lot of dumb bells and Indian clubs, and 
I shall tell him to turn the school-room into a 
gymnasium. You needn’t be shocked if they 
make a racket.” 

“I shall mind nothing, if Paul gets to be 
like other children.- I hope I can get this non- 
sense out of his head and make a good animal 
out of him.” 

“ Send him over to my house often, and Ag- 
nes too. It will do them good, and it will do 
us good. There are no children at our house, 
and my wife finds it dull when I am in the of- 
fice. I will tell Arthur what you wish, and we 
will try to make Paul think less. But you 
may be prepared for anything, for that child is 
something more than ordinary. He is odd 
enough to be a genius, and if he don’t play 
the piano like a genius, then my ears deceive 
me.” 

And then the doctor put on his great coat 
and hurried through the hall. I made sure 
that my aunt was not in sight, then I ran after 
him. He turned and smiled when he saw me 
coming. 

“ Going to see me down to the wharf, Ag- 
nes? Get a shawl then, for Jack Frost is 
abroad.” 


AGNES’ STORY. 


121 


I seized a shawl, and slipping my hand in 
his, walked along with him. All the while my 
aunt and he were talking, it had not occurred 
to me that I was doing wrong to listen ; but 
now I thought that it was not exactly the right 
thing to do. So I said, “Dr. Barnham, I was 
sewing in the back parlor, and I heard all that 
you and Aunt Wendover said. I am sorry. I 
suppose I ought to have gone away.” 

“ No harm done, I guess,” said the doctor, 
kindly. 

“ Dr. Barnham, you truly don’t think that 
Paul will die because he is so good, do you ? ” 

“ Not a bit of it ! The Lord has need of 
him, no doubt. But he is too quiet, and he 
thinks too much. I want you to make him 
play a great deal. If he thinks you wish it he 
will do it to please you. Don’t let him know 
your reason. That would spoil everything.” 

“ I won’t,” I said, feeling very important. 
Then the doctor shook hands with me, and 
stepped into his boat. 

I think Paul was surprised at my sudden 
fondness for sports. When it was too cold to 
take exercise out of doors, I used to coax him 
to play battle-door and shuttle-cock in the cor- 
ridor. And on fine days we played in the 
snow, making wonderful snow men, or coast- 
ing down the only elevation the Island boasted. 


122 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


Mr. Grey shortened our lessons, and we had a 
great deal of gymnastic exercise. I think the 
doctor saw that all this was as good for Mr. 
Grey as for Paul. I think we all enjgyed the 
change. I know that I did. 


CHAPTER IX. 

AGNES’ STORY. 

It is faith in something and enthusiasm for some- 
thing that makes a life worth looking sX— Holmes. 

A FTER a while Mr. Grey went back to col- 
lege, and then to a theological seminary. 
After him, Paul and I had a number of teach- 
ers, some of whom we liked, and some we dis- 
liked, but no one ever took Mr. Grey’s place in 
our hearts. Certain it was, that no one suited 
Aunt Wendover as Mr. Grey had done. 

Paul began to do very nicely with his studies, 
and what pleased Aunt Wendover still more, 
he took some interest in sports and plays, 
though he did not forget that there were graver 
things in the world. She allowed us to spend 
every Saturday with the Barnhams. The 
wonders we saw, and the fun we had, sufficed 
us to talk about till Saturday came around 
again. Besides this, we went to Sunday-school 
as well as to church every Sunday, and this was 
a great pleasure to us. My aunt never went to 
church, and this was a cause of great anxiety 
to Paul, who was a religious child. Even I 

(123) 


124 


WENDOVEE HOUSE. 


worried over it a little, and wished that she 
would go. 

About this time she bought a new piano for 
Paul’s use, and employed a music teacher for 
him from the city. Herr Keller was a German, 
and he was perfectly delighted with his music- 
loving pupil. He was determined to lay a 
thorough foundation, and he put the little hand 
and head through a wearisome course of study. 
From the time Herr Keller came, Paul seemed 
to be perfectly absorbed in his music. He 
would desert his play and leave his meals un- 
tasted, until Aunt Wendover came to the res- 
cue, and forbade him to practice more than 
three hours any day. 

The best of Paul’s playing was that he never 
seemed to think that there was anything ex- 
traordinary in what he did. When we were at 
the Barnhams’, and Mrs. Barnham or the doc- 
tor would ask him to play, he would slip on the 
piano stool and play before a w'hole roomful, 
not seeming in the least elated by their ap- 
plause. Nothing outside of the thing he was 
playing seemed to affect him, though when he 
was a mere child I have seen him lay his head 
upon the keyboard and cry over the heart- 
break in the music. Aunt Wendover always 
frowned on such a display of feeling, ancbher 


AGNES’ STORY. 


126 


quick “Nonsense, Paul!” would serve to dry 
his tears and bring him back to himself. 

For fiction Paul cared but little, except for 
Scott’s novels, and these he read aloud to Aunt 
Wendover. Her sight was failing her, and I 
think she loved to hear Paul’s pleasant voice. 
So evening after evening we listened to him as 
he read from Old Mortality^ Ivanhoe^ or some 
other volume that held us spell-bound. There 
were many books that Paul read simply to 
please Aunt Wendover, vigorous stories of boy 
life at school or at sea. He confided to me that 
he did not like Tom Brown, and he would not 
read Cooper’s novels if he thought Aunt Wen- 
dover would not mind. 

He had often asked her for a violin. I imag- 
ine she thought that one instrument was enough 
for him to use to give expression to his feelings, 
so she always put him off, telling him to wait till 
he was older. But he confided his wish to Herr 
Keller, who responded with a “ Ja woJil ! ” and 
a queer liltle nod. The next time he came to 
the Island he had a queer looking package under 
his arm. I listened at the door of the parlor, 
and as I heard a new sound, I guessed that the 
longed-for violin had come. I said nothing, for 
I feared that Aunt Wendover would confiscate 
it. Week after week I listened, proud of 
Paul’s evident progress. 


126 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


One day Aunt Wendover passed through the 
hall at lesson time. “ Who is that playing the 
violin ? ” she asked sharply. 

“Paul, I think,” I answered in a frightened 
way. 

She threw the door open, and there stood 
Paul, his beloved violin under his dimpled chin. 
He smiled when he saw her, and he played a 
simple little air very accurately. 

Ach!"' said Herr Keller, rubbing his hands 
together, '"'‘Ach! but he will make ze gute 
violinist ! He goes besser on it than on the 
piano. One instrument is not enough for him. 
He need more yet. The organ suit him by- 
and-by.” 

Paul stood still in the center of the room, 
grasping his bow. His face was flushed with 
surprise and pleasure, and yet he was fearful 
that Aunt Wendover was displeased. 

“ You don’t mind. Aunt Wendover, do you ? ” 
he asked timidly. 

“No, if you don’t study yourself to death. 
You will be obliged to give less time to your 
piano now, for mind, you cannot spend more 
than three hours a day on your music.” - 

After that the piano practice was neglected 
for the violin. The little arms must have ached 
often, but Paul faithfully persevered till it was 
a pleasure to listen to his playing. Then, when 


AGNES’ STORY. 


127 ' 


he became quite proficient, he insisted that I 
must accompany him on the piano. I seldom 
played unless it was to lay some ghost or give 
expression to some mood, and I never enjoyed 
any instrument but the old organ. I had no 
gift for music. But for a couple of years Paul 
had insisted upon giving me an occasional lesson 
on the piano, and I had made some progress. I 
used to try the selections he made for me, but 
my awkward attempts must have sorely tried 
his music-loving soul. He never scolded, no 
matter how much I bungled. He would point 
out my mistake, and wait with the utmost pa- 
tience, while I played the passage over and 
over, and he would praise me when I went 
through it with a blunder or two less. 

And so with our music, our books, and our 
studies, the time passed quickly till Paul was 
nearly thirteen, and I fourteen years old. 

Not long after he passed his thirteenth birth- 
day he began to talk of going to school. At 
first. Aunt Wendover would not hear of this, 
but Dr. Barnham advised her to let Paul have 
his way, for he thought the companionship of 
boys of his own age might be the best thing 
for him. 

“ Let him mix with other lads,” said the doc- 
tor. Let him get his head full of foot-ball 
and cricket. He needs more chest, he has too 


128 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


much brain for his brawn. I would have ad- 
vised you to send him away to a boys’ school, 
but I feared that Agnes would break her 
heart.” 

“ Well,” sighed my aunt, “ do as you see fit.” 

So to school Paul went. Every morning I 
went down to the wharf and watched his little 
boat glide over the water. Then I turned back 
to my school- room and to the studies that 
seemed duller than ever, now that Paul was not 
there to share them with me. His studies and 
mine began to differ. 

condition grew better each year. My 
aunt noticed me more, and now and then she 
seemed to take some interest in me. To Paul, 
however, she was an entirely different person ; 
she idolized him. Indeed, I think it was for 
his sake that she treated me with more con- 
sideration, for no one could slight me and fail 
to wound my loyal little champion. His 
slightest wish was law in the house, although I 
.must say he was never selfish or exacting. 

After awhile a very pleasant thing happened. 
Mr. Grey came back to live among us, or at 
least, he came to the city, and it seemed good 
to have him so near us. The old pastor’s health 
was failing, and as Arthur Grey had finished 
his theological course, he came to be Dr. Mur- 
ray’s assistant. I had never heard anything 


AGNES’ STORY. 


129 


that affected me as Mr. Grey’s preaching did ; 
it seemed to go straight to my heart. Thoughts 
that had never before troubled me, ran through 
my mind. I felt a new sense of sin, and often 
this question rang in my ears : “ What would 

become of you if you should die? ” 

I did not know that the same thoughts were 
troubling Paul, and I should not have known, 
if he had not told me. 

“ Agnes,” he said one day, “ wouldn’t you 
like to join the church ? ” 

“ Why, Paul ! ” I exclaimed, startled by the 
question ; for the idea was a new one. 

“ I would like to, I want to,” he said. 

He was lying on the grass, watching the 
clouds, for we were in our favorite haunt down 
by the shore. 

“ Ever since Mr. Grey began to preach for 
us, I have wished to be better.” 

“ You are good enough, Paul ; but I can 
never be,” I said sadly. 

“ None of us can be good enough, Agnes, 
that is, of ourselves. It is faith in Christ that 
makes anyone fit. Don’t you remember, Mr. 
Grey explained it last communion Sunda}" ? ” 

I did not answer. I was thinking of that 
Sabbath, when, for the first time, I had seen the 
Lord’s Supper commemorated. The wonder, 
the mystery of it, had awed me. 


130 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


Before that day Nurse Hillyer had always 
risen and gone out with us before the sacrament 
was administered. But that time Paul and I 
were alone, and we remained through the serv- 
ice. 

“ And should you eat the communion, Paul ? ” 
I asked, almost in a whisper. 

“ Of course I shall if I join the church ! ” 

“ I should not dare, Paul. I know I never 
can be fit.” 

“ Agnes, I think we had better talk to Mr. 
Grey. He knows so much more than we do, 
that he can tell us what to do. Shall we row 
over now? The air is getting cooler, and we 
have time to get back before dinner.” 

I was willing, and we pushed out from the 
shore, each taking an oar, for I had overcome 
my dislike of the water. 

We found Mr. Grey in his study busied with 
a microscope and some insects. 

“ I am glad you are here,” he said, “ I was 
just wishing for you. Come and see what cur- 
ious beetles I have here. They came from 
South America.” 

But Paul plunged right into the subject up- 
permost in his mind. “ Mr. Grey, Agnes and I 
are thinking about joining the church. Do you 
think we might ? Or are we too young? ” 

Mr. Grey was all attention at once. He 


AGNES’ STORY. 


131 


hastily put the beetles away, and drew his chair 
up between us. “ No, you are not too young,” 
he said. “ The sooner you begin, the easier it 
will be for you. Now tell me all about your 
feelings.” 

Paul talked easily enough, and I was sur- 
prised to find that all was so clear before him. 
How I wished for a like faith, for I felt that I 
was of all people the least worthy. 

“It is the simplest thing in the world, Ag- 
nes,” said Mr. Grey, turning to me. “ If you 
are sure that you love our Lord and that you 
wish to make his service your highest desire, 
then you ought to join yourself with his pro- 
fessed followers. Do you feel all this, my 
child?” 

My only answer was a sudden burst of tears. 
Mr. Grey said no more to me, but he and Paul 
talked together till I grew calmer, then Paul 
rose to go home. We walked hand in hand 
through the streets, and when we reached our 
boat, we rowed home in silence. Nor did we 
speak again on that subject during the evening. 

But that night as I lay tossing on my bed, I 
grew more peaceful, and before I fell asleep I 
felt that it was settled. I would enlist under 
Christ’s banner, and serve him faithfully all my 
life. 


CHAPTER X. 


DE. BARNHAM’S story. 


“Aee ye ready, ye children, to eat of the bread of 
Atonement ? ” 

Thus, with emotion, he asked, and together answered 
the children, 

“Yes! ” with deep sobs interrupted. 


Children of the Lord's Supper. 


RTHUR told me of the children’s visit, so I 



was not surprised when Miss Wendover 
sent for me to come to the Island. On my way 
there, I met Agnes and Paul rowing themselves 
to the city on some errand for their aunt, and I 
guessed that she had sent them out of the way 
purposely. 

“What do you think those children have 
taken into their heads now? ” was Miss Wen- 
dover’s salutation. 

She had walked down to the shore to meet 
me, and it seemed to me that her, tall, slender 
figure looked unusually straight, and that her 
face wore a more set expression even than 
usual. 

“Well, what is your news? ” I inquired. 

“It is this. They want to join the church! 
Did you ever hear of such a ridiculous thing? ” 


( 132 ) 


DK. barnham’s story. 133 

“ I do not see anything ridiculous in it,” I 
said. 

“ Of course it is Paul’s idea, for Agnes never 
originates anything. I was perfectly speechless 
this morning when Paul announced that he 
wanted to join the church, and that they had been 
to talk to Mr. Grey. I must put a stop to it, but 
I hardly know how to do it. ■ So I sent for 
you.” 

“Why should you wish to stop it? I can- 
not see how you dare attempt such a thing. If 
God has called those children, what right have 
you to interfere?” 

“ Oh, it is all nonsense ! I wish I had kept 
Paul at home. This comes of his going to 
church. I wouldn’t mind Agnes so much, for 
it don’t hurt a woman to be religious, and 
Agnes is bound to be one of the yea-nay sort. 
But I am ambitious for Paul, and I will not see 
him spoil his life before he knows what he 
wants. I have let him do as he pleased, I have 
given money to beggars, and sent victuals and 
medicine to sick people, and made myself ridic- 
ulous to please him. But I cannot let him have 
his way in this. He will get his head full of 
religion, then he will want to be a minister, or 
worse yet, a missionary.” 

“ What right have you to say that he shall 
do neither? Tarke care what you do. You 


134 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


may turn Paul away from the right now, and 
he may never get back. You are daring more 
than I should dare.” 

“I tell you I do think of the child, and all I 
do is for his good. I want him to make up for 
the miserable failures of the Wendovers’. He 
shall have all the Wendover money to do it 
with. I have some family pride yet, and I want 
Paul to take my name and distinguish it. The 
child has genius. Herr Keller says his play- 
ing is wonderful.” 

“My dear Miss Wendover,” I said, “ what 
has all this to do with his becoming a Christian ? 
If his talent is consecrated talent, so much the 
better. I should think that you, who have seen 
the evils of disbelief, would be glad that the 
future master of this house will be different 
from his predecessors. I use the privilege of 
an old friend, and speak plainly.” 

“ I see you do,” she said, with some bitter- 
ness, “but you cannot convince me. I mean 
to give Paul the best education that can be had, 
then I want him to travel and see the world. 
When he is tired of that he shall come home 
and enjoy all there is for him. I am glad that 
I have saved money all these years. Paul shall 
have it all, and he shall enjoy life.” 

I looked at her, and I wondered what happi- 


DE. barnham’s story. 135 

ness her money had brought to her, and before 
I could stop it, the question asked itself. 

She turned a shade paler, and answered, “ I 
had not an even chance. You know the story 
of my life. Don’t dig up the buried past.” 

“ I must, when nothing but the past will 
move you. Alicia, how will you meet Paul 
Raymond ? How can you account to him for 
the precious soul of the child he left in your 
keeping?” 

“I knew I had struck home, for her face 
quivered, and her hands worked nervously. I 
knew that I was wounding her cruelly, but I 
kept on. 

“ Let the boy live in the faith of his father. 
It kept Paul through adversity and illness, and 
it made his bed easy when he lay dying in an 
almshouse among strangers. What can you 
give his child that will afford him the same 
consolation ? ” 

She raised her hands as if to ward off a blow. 
“ I submit ! ” she said. “ Let Paul do as he 
will, for his father’s sake.” 

It was strange that when notldng else could 
move her, the name of the dead could break 
her stubborn will. 

So she gave her consent to the children’s 
request, and they never knew how nearly it had 
been withheld. I don’t think she bore me any 


186 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


ill-will for my plain speaking. I was sorry to 
hurt her so, but I had to do it. I had seen 
enough of the Wendover will, and I think she 
had, for it had blighted her life. 

On the Sabbath when Paul and Agnes stood 
before the congregation, many of the people 
said, Amen. The tears filled my eyes as I 
looked at them and wondered if the time would 
ever come when that proud, hard woman would 
humble herself to bow at God’s altar. I wished 
she could have seen the children that morning. 
Agnes, in her simple white dress, with a bunch 
of flowers in her bosom, made a sweet picture 
of girlish piety. And Paul looked like some 
youthful saint, his face wore such a rapt expres- 
sion. It was a lovely face that he had, and it 
was the mirror of a lovely soul within. 

I watched the children all through the solemn 
service that followed, and I wondered what 
life would bring to each. “ Agnes is all 
woman,” I thought, “ and she will help make 
some home bright. It will be the first home 
she has known, for in that great house is no 
corner that i^ home-like. Everything there is 
elegant and costly, yet I am always glad to 
get back to my own home. There is not a rich 
thing there, but there is comfort, and somehow, 
it is home. It makes all the difference in the 
world whether the presiding genius of the house 


DB. baenham’s story. 137 

is Alicia Wendover or Nellie Barnham. God 
bless the little woman ! Without her help, 
Agnes would not be growing up into such a 
lovable girl. I hope she will make a woman 
just like Nellie, and I wish that aunt of hers 
could appreciate her. But she never will, 
unless something changes her wonderfully. 
That afternoon I thought of them again; and 
my wife and I spoke of them. 

“Didn’t Paul and Agnes look lovely this 
morning ? ” Nellie asked. 

“ Yes,” I said, “ I was just thinking of them. 
I wonder what Paul will make of himself.” 

“ I think more of Agnes’ future. Paul can 
be anything he likes, but I don’t see any out- 
look for Agnes,” said Nellie, thoughtfully. 

“I hardly expect any career for Agnes, I 
don’t think she would want it. She will prob- 
ably do like a certain good woman I know, make 
a charming home for somebody. But Paul, I 
think that with all his gifts he is bound to make 
his mark in the world. And I am sure that Miss 
Wendover expects great things of him.” 

“Don’t mention Miss Wendoyer, Jack, if 
you please. I was thinking this morning how 
I pitied Agnes because she can’t get away from 
her. By' the way, Agnes looks like her, but 
there the resemblance ceases. Agnes is a very 
sweet girl, and she is very affectionate, too.” 


138 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


“ I think she must take her sweetness from 
her Italian mother. I suppose the Wendovers 
felt affection for one another, in fact, I know 
they did, but they took care never to show it. 
We should not be too hard on Miss Wen- 
dover; God maketh us to differ. She is a 
better woman than she was seven years ago, 
and we must not look for a miracle.” 

“ Nobody but Paul has any influence with 
her,” said my wife. 

“ I know it. He can do a great deal with 
her, and she will have to put up with a good 
many innovations. He delights in giving, and 
he makes deep inroads on Miss Wendover’s 
purse. If he is once master of Wendover 
House he will be likely to turn it into a hospi- 
tal. If he was just like other boys, we would 
not care so much for him. They are queer 
children, both Agnes and Paul.” 

“ Yes, they are,” said Nellie, “ they are like 
no one else.” 

After Paul went to school in the city, he be- 
gan to change in some respects, and he showed 
more interest in manly sports. Of course this 
pleased Miss Wendover. I knew the change 
was an excellent thing for him, though I could 
not help pitying Agnes. Well, there always 
was money enough at Wendover House, what- 
ever else was lacking. There was everything 


DR. BARN ham’s STORY. 


139 


but love, as I used to tell my wife before the 
children went there. Then there was plenty 
of affection between Paul and Agnes, and the 
place seemed a little more like home. 


CHAPTER XL 


AGNES’ STORY. 

What a thing friendship is, world without end. 

Browning. 

"pAUL grew more fond of music each year, 
^ and his playing was considered quite won- 
derful. 

One day when he was in his fifteenth year, 
he rushed into the school-room where I sat 
putting the finishing touches to a monstrosity 
supposed to be a picture. His face was all^ 
aglow with excitement, and he was out of 
breath. 

“ Why, Paul ! What has happened ? ” I in- 
quired. 

“ The organ ! I have played it ! O Agnes, 
you can’t think what fun it is,” he cried. “ I 
have longed to touch it, but I did not dare. 
To-day Mr. Grey introduced me to the organ- 
ist, and told him how music crazy I am, and 
the organist was real nice and jolly. He said he 
was going to the church to practice, and he 
asked me to go with him. He let me try the 
organ, and he said I did splendidly. I am go- 
ing again ; he said I must.” 


( 140 ) 


AGNES’ STOKY. 


141 


I smiled, as pleased as he was, for I was very 
proud of Paul’s music. I made him sit down 
and go through the whole story again. 

After that he often went to the church to 
practice, and for a while he thought and talked 
of nothing but the organ. 

A couple of months later, Paul announced that 
Mr. Eliot was going to take a vacation, and 
that he, Paul, was going to play the organ in 
his absence. He told the news at the dinner- 
table, and Aunt Wendover showed considera- 
ble interest. 

“Do you understand it well enough to play 
in public ? ” she asked. “ I wouldn’t have you 
fail for anything.” 

“I shall not do you any discredit. Auntie 
Wendover. I understand the organ, and it 
understands me. I feel perfectly happy when 
I get my fingers on the keys. I am so sorry 
that you won’t hear me play. Won’t you 
come ? I am going to play such a pretty vol- 
untary.” 

“ You can play it for me at home.” 

“ Yes, but it will not sound so well.” Aunt 
Wendover, when will you go to church?” 

She merely shook her head in reply, and 
Paul looked disappointed. 

“ Aunt Wendover,” he said, later in the 


142 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


evening, “ whose music is that in the closet of 
the red room ? I found great piles of it there.” 

“ Some of it is mine, I suppose.” 

“ Did you ever play ? ” Paul asked, in sur- 
prise. 

“ Yes, I used to play.” 

I was as surprised as Paul, for I never imag- 
ined Aunt Wendover doing anything of the 
kind. 

“I suppose I may use the music?” Paul 
asked. “ I didn’t think to ask you before.” 

“ I don’t care who uses it. I am net likely 
to want it now.” 

A few days later Paul and I were rummag- 
ing over the music in the closet, when I found 
an exercise book with “ Paul Raymond ” writ- 
ten on the fly-leaf. 

“ Here is one of your old harmony books,” I 
said, tossing it to Paul. 

“ I never had a book with such a cover,” 
said Paul. “It must be Aunt Wendover’s.” 

He opened it carelessly, but when he saw 
the name, he showed a good deal of excite- 
ment. “ It must have been my father’s,” he 
said softly. “It is not mine, and it is my 
father’s name. I wonder how his book came to 
be here ! I shall ask Aunt Wendover about it.” 

He put the music back in the closet, and 
then he sat looking at the exercise book which 


AGNES’ STORY. 


143 


he still held in his hand. When, at last, the 
dinner-bell rang, he took the book down with 
him. I noticed that he was very quiet all 
through dinner, and I guessed that he was 
thinking of his father. 

When dinner was over, he carried the book 
to Aunt Wendover, and asked, “ Whose book 
is this ? I found it in the red room.” 

Aunt Wendover made a feint of putting on 
her glasses, but I guessed that she did it only 
to gain time. She seemed much moved when 
she opened the book and saw the name. She 
looked paler than usual, and she did not answer 
Paul till he repeated his question. 

“ Whose book was this, my father’s ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Did he ever live here ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“When? For how long? Will you tell 
me about him ? ” He added, “ I must not tease 
you with questions, but there are some things 
that I must know. 1 have been thinking about 
them for years. Will you please tell me. Aunt 
Wendover?” 

“ Sometime I will, but not now.” 

“ When will you tell me ? ” 

“ When you are twenty-one. Don’t ask me 
any more questions now, for I shall not answer 
them. 


144 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


“ Over six years to wait ! ” Paul sighed. 
“One thing more, Aunt Wendover, please. 
Am I any relation of yours ? ” 

“ No.” 

“Of Agnes’?” 

“ No.” 

“ Then I haven’t any relatives. Did mamma 
ever live here ? ” 

“No.” 

“Did you know her?” 

“ No. Don’t ask me anything more. When 
you are twenty-one you shall know all that I 
know.” She spoke decidedly, but not un- 
kindly. 

“ I am sorry,” said Paul sadly. 

“ About what, Paul ? ” 

“ I am sorry that I am no relation of yours. 
It seems queer to belong to no one ! ” 

He went to the window, and stood partially 
hidden by the curtains. I felt like sobbing out 
of sympathy for him, if Aunt Wendover had 
not been there. 

At last she spoke. “ Paul, you shall never 
miss your relatives. As long as I live, you 
need not lack for a friend. There are reasons 
why I shall always wish to keep you with me. 
Call me Aunt Wendover just as Agnes does.” 

“ Is Agnes really your niece ? ” Paul asked. 

“ Yes,” my aunt replied, and I fancied that 


AGNES’ STORY. 


145 


she wished that Paul and I could change 
places. 

Presently he turned away from the window, 
and, seeing, a pained look upon Aunt Wen- 
dover’s face, he said, “ I am sorry if I have 
hurt you with my questions. Forgive me ! ” 

“ You need not ask that, you have done no 
harm. Put the book away, or keep it if you 
like ; but don’t speak to me of anything you 
see.” 

I think that both of them had forgotten my 
presence. I slipped away, and left them to- 
gether. 

Paul succeeded finely with the organ on the 
following Sabbath. I was a little nervous ; but 
he seemed perfectly cool. How he played that 
day ! I shall never again hear music that can 
affect me as that did. I suppose I disgraced 
myself by wiping my eyes all through the serv- 
ice. I was very proud of Paul, and I wished 
for Aunt Wendover. 

We usually spent the hours between morn- 
ing and evening service with the Barnhams, 
and we went home with them that day. Some- 
how, that Sabbath stands out in my memory 
with that Sabbath when Paul and I joined the 
church. After dinner we strolled in the sweet- 
scented, old-fashioned garden, sometimes rest- 
ing on one of the rustic seats, sometimes pick- 
10 


146 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


ing fruit from the trees that lined the walks. 
Mr. Grey came to tea, and then we seemed 
quite complete. 

There was something very sweet and simple 
about the Barnham home. Wendover House 
was ten times as grand, but it lacked a certain 
nameless charm. For me, no rich repast could 
equal Mrs. Barnham’s simple tea-table with its 
spotless linen, its flowered china painted by the 
same hands that had moulded the bread. The 
vase of flowers, the bowl of berries, and the 
pitcher of cream, all seemed perfect. Peace 
brooded over the little house, there were no 
mysteries, no skeletons hiding in closets. And 
then the conversation that went on there ! 
No wonder that Sunday was a blessed day to 
me, a green oasis in the midst of a long week. 

After supper Paul played, and the others 
sang. Only I sat apart, but perhaps I made 
melody in my heart. After the singing, it was 
time to go to church, and we all went together. 
Mr. Grey always preached in the evening. I 
loved to hear his deep voice in the reading and 
the prayer, and when the organ chimed in, it 
seemed indeed that the Lord was in his holy 
temple. 

All the way home, Paul sang one of the 
hymns of the evening, Keble’s lovely words, 
“Sun of my soul, Thou Saviour, dear/* 


AGNES’ STORY. 


147 


set to a sweet tune that was a great favorite of 
ours. As the boat touched the wharf, Paul’s 
hand clasped mine. 

Hasn’t this been a lovely Sunday, Agnes? ” 
he asked. 

“Yes, lovely; I shall always remember it,” 
I said. 

Aunt Wendover stood on the balcony wait- 
ing for us, and I knew she was anxious to hear 
how Paul had acquitted himself. 

“ It is all right, auntie Wendover,” he calle^d, 
and she looked relieved. 

Mr. Eliot was absent for several Sabbaths, 
and Paul filled his place. I think he was sorry 
when the organist came back, but he went over 
to the church several times each week, and had 
what he called a “ grand practice.” 

About this time he fitted up a little octagonal 
room in the tower. I called it the study, but 
he named it the den. He had his favorite books 
there, his beloved violin, his drawing apparatus, 
and a desk for his papers. For he began to 
have a good many papers now, and they were 
not merely exercises. Sometimes he showed 
me a brief sketch, a bit of a poem, or a score 
or two of music he had composed. Already, 
the creative instinct was at work in him, boy as 
he was. And I, who had no gifts, admired 
what I believed to be his genius. 


148 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


Paul could have been prepared for college at 
sixteen, but Aunt Wendover, desirous of put- 
ting off the evil day of his leaving, insisted that 
he must wait a year, when he would be stronger. 
Accordingly, he spent the year in an easy 
review of his studies with Mr. Grey, for he had 
left school. With the exception of a couple of 
hours spent with Mr. Grey every morning, he 
was at home all the time. 

Once when Paul was wishing for some old 
costumes. Aunt Wendover gave him the keys 
and told him to look in the attic chambers. 
They proved a perfect treasure house for us, 
and we ransacked old stores of old furniture, 
old costumes, old papers and letters and all the 
interesting rubbish of a dozen generations of 
Wendovers. For nothing ever was destroyed; 
a thing that had belonged to a Wendover was 
too sacred to be thrown away ; consequently 
one might read the history of the family in its 
relics. After we had exhausted the resources 
of the garret, it was but a step to the roof, 
which was flat, and then we had a glorious view 
of all the surrounding country. Often we 
would spend whole days there, Paul with a book 
and I with my sewing. We seemed to breathe 
more freely there, and we used our house-top 
quite in an oriental fashion. 

Our conversation usually ended by my say- 


AGNES’ STOKY. 


149 


ing, “ O Paul, what shall I do without you 
those four long years ? ” 

And he would say, “There, Agnes, don’t 
think about it yet. When I do go I shall write 
often, and I shall come home three times a 
year. It won’t be so terrible, will it ? ” 

Not for him, perhaps, I thought. But those 
who stay at home feel the separation more. 

The year passed, much as I should have liked 
to keep it, and Paul left home for his first term 
at college. He seemed happy and content, and 
I was glad to know it, though I could have 
wished that he missed me more. I hardly know 
how I lived through those first weary months. 
The worst of it was, I felt that from that time 
Paul would never be the same to us, that the 
Island could never again suffice for him. I 
knew that he would have new friends and new 
interests, and that our delightful boy and girl 
life was at an end. I had nothing to look for-^ 
ward to. I had no hope of getting away, no 
new scenes opened up before me. And when 
one has nothing to look forward to, one has 
indeed fallen upon evil times. 

Another thing made my life unusually hard. 
As soon as Paul was gone. Aunt Wendover 
seemed the same person I had known before 
Paul came to the Island. I was only Agnes, 
and she did not care to take any trouble for my 


150 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


sake. She did not scold me, though sometimes 
I wished she would ; I grew so tired of the 
silenqe between us. 

Mrs. Barnham once told my aunt that she 
ought to send me away to school that I might 
have the society of girls of my own age. But 
Aunt Wendover never heeded the suggestion. 
There I stayed, the dull days only broken.by 
Paul’s letters, which were a great comfort to 
me. 

He came home for a short visit at Christmas, 
and that summer we had him all to ourselves 
for three precious months. Paul was un- 
changed ; of that I was joyously sure, and I en- 
joyed those pleasant summer days to the ut- 
most. I never grew weary of his stories of 
college-life. I knew his friends nearly as well 
as if I had seen them, and I was interested in 
his studies, his recreations, and all that was 
dear to his heart. 

The sweet summer went by all too soon, and 
again I was left alone with Aunt Wendover. 

Aunt Wendover used to lose all patience 
with my moping, and she sometimes reproved 
me sharply, telling me that I was silly, that I 
couldn’t always expect to have Paul at my beck 
and call, and she should think that I could see 
that it was best for him to be away. She would 
finish by quoting, “Home-keeping youth have 


AGNES’ STORY. 


151 


ever homely wits,” and asked me if I wanted 
Paul to appear awkward and countrified. I 
knew he could never be either, and while I did 
wish him to have all that could make life a suc- 
cess, it was no wonder that I missed him, the 
only person who really loved me. 

After awhile it was quite a usual thing foT 
one of Paul’s friends to accompany him when 
he came home ; for Aunt Wendover would have 
invited the sphinx if she thought the visit 
would give Paul pleasure. I stood quite in 
awe of the strange young men, and they took 
little notice of me, for which I was thankful. 

I was surprised at Aunt Wendover, for she 
made a charming hostess. She was very pleas- 
ant and cordial, and she did all in her power to 
give Paul’s guests an enjoyable visit. 

One young man, George Stuart by name, 
came oftener than any of the others, and the 
more he came, the less I liked him. I used to 
wonder what attracted Paul to him, for he 
seemed perfectly infatuated with Mr. Stuart, 
and he was completely under his influence. I 
often felt a pang of jealousy that Paul could 
think so much of any stranger. But I tried 
hard not to grudge his friends the attention he 
paid them, though I could not help looking for- 
ward to the time when they should leave, and I 
could have Paul to myself. 


152 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


Aunt Wendover always seemed pleasant with 
his company. She liked George Stuart especi- 
ally well, and she encouraged Paul’s intimacy 
with him. I could not understand why she did 
so, for I had a feeling that he would never do 
Paul any good. But Stuart was of an aristo- 
cratic family, and she wanted Paul to have in- 
fluential friends. As for Stuart, he often told 
Paul that he envied him his fairy god-mother. 
That was his name for Aunt Wendover because 
she lavished everything upon Paul. 

I think Paul asked Aunt Wendover to be 
more considerate of my feelings, for after he 
went back to college she snubbed me less than 
usual. If she bad been kind and companion- 
able, I might have found life a very different 
thing. But I had ceased to hope for that. 
My only pleasure was the society of the Barn- 
hams, and I would not go to their house as often 
as I wished to, for fear they would tire of me. 
Besides, Aunt Wendover disliked to have me 
go, and I would not displease her too often, 
even for the sake of visiting dear Mrs. Barn- 
‘ham. 


CHAPTER XIL 


AGNES’ STORY. 

Lancelot : I love not to be constrained to love ; 

for love must arise from the heart, and not by no 
constraint.** 

King Arthur : ** That is true, love is free in him- 
self, and never will be bounden; for where he is 
bounden he looseth himself.** 

^HE years seemed to drag slowly enough, but 
they went by till one morning I realized 
that I was twenty years old. I was a woman, 
surely; but I was so plain and little that I 
might have passed for four years younger. In- 
deed, my dress was so simple and childish that 
no one would have thought me more than a 
school-girl. I never cared about my dress, ex- 
cept to have it neat, for I had little or no pride 
in self-adornment. But Paul often noticed the 
deficiencies in my wardrobe, and then I saw 
them myself. 

I remember just how I spent that birthday. 
I woke early, and after I had dressed myself I 
sat down in my room, thinking as I had never 
thought before. What did my life mean? I 
asked myself. Why was I put into the world ? 

( 153 ) 


164 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


Other people had accomplished so much at 
twenty, and I had done nothing. Nor was 
there any prospect of my doing anything, so 
there was no comfort to be gained from trying 
to pry into the future. 

As my aunt and I sat over our late breakfast, 
Hawkins brought in the mail. I had a letter 
from Paul, also a tiny package, for he never 
forgot to notice my birthday. It was a slender 
bracelet set with tiny gems. As I slipped it on 
my wrist, my aunt asked, “ What have you 
there ? ” 

“ It is Paul’s present. It is my birthday, you 
know.” 

“ No, I did not know ; or, at least, I had for- 
gotten. How old are you ? ” 

“ Twenty.” 

“ Is it possible ? ” she said, putting on her 
spectacles. “You don’t look it. I was more 
of a woman at fourteen. But I suppose you 
are right in your reckoning. I presume I ought 
to give you a present. Tell me what you wish 
and you shall have it.’* 

“ Thank you. Aunt Wendover, but I don’t 
think I want anything,” I said. And I told the 
truth. 

“I should like to spend the day with Mrs. 
Barnham, if you have no objections,” I said 
presently. 


AGNES’ STOKY. 


155 


“ I have no objections. You are old enough 
to think for yourself, Agnes, and 3^ou need not 
ask me about everything you do.” 

Aunt Wendover arose and went to her secre- 
tary, and counting out some bills, handed them 
to me. “ You ought to have some money of 
your own,” she said. “ Paul has had an allow- 
ance for a long time. But you have stayed so 
closely on the Island that I forgot that you 
might need money. Here .are a hundred dol- 
lars to start with, and on the first day of every 
month, I will pay you twenty-five dollars. I 
expect you to buy your clothes with it, but I 
shall not ask you how you spend it. Perhaps 
you had better do some shopping to-day, I 
dare say Mrs. Barnham will assist you. I be- 
lieve your wardrobe needs attention, and I 
don’t wish you to appear shabby. I forgot that 
you are no longer a school-girl. You are a 
young lady, and you must dress like one.” 

“ But, aunt,” I said, “ I don’t need so much 
money. I don’t know what to do with.it.” 

“ Then it is quite time you learned how to 
use money. Do as you please with it, but don’t 
trouble me.” 

I made myself ready to go to Mrs. Barn- 
ham’s, and I spent the whole day there. It was 
early when I reached the house, and she was 
busied with her morning duties. I followed her 


156 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


from kitchen to pantry, helping her when she 
would allow me to. I was of a domestic turn, 
and I dearly loved the mysteries of housekeep- 
ing. But at home I never was allowed to do 
anything of the kind. My aunt wished me to 
keep away from the kitchen, and Betsey, the 
old cook, would tolerate no one but Paul in her 
domain. Even when Paul used to sit ou her 
table and appropriate bits of dough, he was 
suffered to remain. But, then, he was Paul, a 
privileged person. 

When Mrs. Barnham and I sat down to rest, 
I said, “Mrs. Barnham, Aunt Wendover. gave 
me a hundred dollars this morning, and I don’t 
know what to do with it all.” 

Mrs. Barnham laughed merrily. “Well, 
Agnes, that amuses me ! That is never my 
complaint, or Jack’s either. We have so little 
that we are obliged to spend some time in plan- 
ning what we need most. Though we do man- 
age to get along quite comfortably, in spite of 
poverty.” 

“ Why, Mrs. Barnham ! ” I cried. “ I think 
you have a lovely home. I think you and the 
doctor ought to be the happiest people in the 
world.” 

“We are happy, and I ought to be ashamed 
to mention such a paltry thing as money. Some 
day, Agnes, I hope you will have as happy a 


AGNES’ STOEY. 


157 


home as mine. But would you be contented in 
such a life? This house isn’t much like Wen- 
dover House.” 

“ Oh it is so sweet and lovely here ; but at 
home everything is gloomy and queer ! No, no, 
anything like this is not for^me.” 

“ My dear Agnes,” said Mrs. Barnham, tak- 
ing my face between her hands, and kissing 
me ; “ My dear Agnes.” 

I could not think why she should kiss me 
just then, but I was glad that she loved me so 
well. 

“ But let us talk about that dreadful hundred 
dollars,’^ said Mrs. Barnham, laughing again. 
“ What does Miss Wendover wish you to do 
with it? ” 

“ She does not care, though she suggested 
that I might need some new clothes.” 

“ Sensible suggestion ! I am tired of seeing 
our Agnes such a dull bird. You can buy a 
great many pretty things with that money.” 

“ And I am to have an allowance of twenty- 
five dollars every month. I am sure I shall not 
know how to use it all. You must help me, 
Mrs. Barnham.” 

“I promise. We’ll go shopping this very 
afternoon.” 

And shopping we went. Mrs. Barnham was 
in her element, turning over pretty fabrics, and 


158 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


flying from counter to counter. Some of the 
things she selected were too bright for me, and 
I made her compromise for something less gay. 
At nightfall we went home, laden down with 
our purchases, and quite fatigued with our 
afternoon’s work. 

We found the doctor waiting for us. He was 
sitting in the porch, and Mr. Grey was with 
him. Mr. Grey said he had been visiting in 
the parish till he was tired, and he begged Mrs. 
Barnham for a cup of tea. He stayed to tea, 
and we had a merry time. Mrs. Barnham spoke 
of my sudden accession of wealth, and the doc- 
tor chaffed me about my purchases, and affected 
much curiosity concerning certain bundles that 
were on the piano. 

The very next week a strange thing happened. 
If I had not been so blind, I suppose I might 
have seen it coming long before ; but I was 
blind, blind as a mole. So I could not help 
being startled, not to say shocked, when Mr. 
Grey spoke to me so plainly one day. I sup- 
posed that he liked me, as Mr. and Mrs. Barn- 
ham did. I never dreamed tliat he loved me, 
plain, shy little Agnes Wendover. I was per- 
fectly innocent of his intentions, and yet I could 
not help blaming myself for my dullness. 

It all happened one afternoon when he came 
to the Island. I was playing, and feeling very 


AGNES' STOEY. 


159 


sad and dispirited, when Barbara came and said 
that Mr. Grey wished to see me. I was glad to 
hear that he was there, for I was unusually 
lonel}^ that afternoon, and I always enjoyed a 
talk with him. He came so seldom when Paul 
was away, that I supposed he had some message 
for me from Mrs. Barnham or the doctor. He 
stayed a long time, talking much more than 
usual, for he was rather a silent man. All at 
once his tone changed, and he told me that he 
loved me and wanted me to be his wife. Such 
an idea had never entered my mind, and I could 
scarcely believe my ears. I looked at him to 
see if he could be jesting, but he was only too 
much in earnest. He went on talking so ten- 
derly and kindly that I thought my heart would 
break. I knew at once that it could not be, 
and I tried to tell him so, but it seemed so 
heartless to keep repeating my foolish words 
that I was sorry that I could not love him. At 
last I fell into a helpless fit of crying, and he 
said no more. He took my hand, saying with 
much feeling, “Agnes, I do not want you to 
give yourself one sad moment on my account. 
The mistake was mine, so let me bear all the 
suffering. I will never speak of this again ; 
but if the time ever comes when you feel dif- 
ferently toward me, will you let me know ? I 


160 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


am sure that I shall not change. Promise me 
this, Agnes, and God bless ydli ! ” 

I promised him, and he went away. I 
watched his boat as long as I could, and then I 
went to my room to have my cry out. As I 
lay with my face buried in the pillow, I tried 
to reason with myself. There was no one in 
the world whom I respected more highly or ad- 
mired more than Mr. Grey, and there was. no 
one else so worthy, so good, so patient. He 
had stooped to ask me to be his wife, and I, 
poor, miserable little worm that I was, could not 
love him. 

I dried my eyes and went down when the 
dinner-bell rang, not because I felt like eating, 
but because I never dared absent myself from 
the table. My aunt must have noticed my red 
eyes and swollen features, for she glanced 
sharply at me, as I took my seat, though she 
made no remarks. As we left the dining-room 
I said, 

“Aunt Wendover, if you are not too busy, 
I should like to see you alone by-and-by.” 

“ You may come to my room when you like,” 
was her reply. 

I spent a flew moments in screwing up my 
courage before I entered her room. Then I 
stood upon the hearth-rug nervously twisting 
my handkerchief. 


AGNES’ STOEY. 


161 


“Aunt Wenclover,” I began at last, desper- 
ately pitching into the subject, “ Mr. Grey was 
here this afternoon, and — and — he asked me to 
marry him ! ” 

It was out at last, and I turned to see how 
my aunt took my news. 

“Well! ’’was her comment, and I thought 
she looked pleased as she surveyed me from 
the comb in my hair to the bows on my slip- 
pers. 

“ He is a fine young man, and it will be an 
excellent thing for you, Agnes.” 

“ But, Aunt Wendover, I don’t love him, 
and I told him that I could not marry him,” I 
said, for her matter-of-course manner frightened 
me. 

“ You can’t, eh ? What do you know about 
love, a chit of a girl that has been mewed up 
on an Island all your life ? I have seen this 
coming for some time, and I was rather glad of 
it. I supposed that you would be ready to 
jump at the chance of being a minister’s wife. 
But it seems that there is no accounting for the 
freaks of girls. What do you expect to do ? 
You can’t make a fine match, for although you 
have improved much, you are a plain girl.” 

I could not help wincing at her words. I 
had told myself a hundred times that I was 
11 


162 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


plain, even homely, but I did not like to hear 
her say it. 

“ I have thought a good deal about your fu- 
ture, Agnes,” my aunt went on, “ and I was 
glad to think that you would have such an ex- 
cellent chance of marriage. I thought that 
you were one of the kind who would marry, 
for you seem to be a dependent creature.” 

“I don’t wish to marry. Aunt Wendover, I 
don’t indeed.” 

“ Humph ! ” was her retort. “ Have you 
ever thought of what was to become of you af- 
ter I am gone ? For I don’t expect to live for- 
ever. I want to see you settled in life, for 
when I am dead you will have no relative in 
the world. The Wendovers have all died out, 
except one branch of cousins, and we have 
had no intercourse for many years.” 

“ I don’t wish to be a burden to you. Aunt,” 
I faltered, for the future seemed very barren to 
me. “If you are willing, I will try to earn my 
own living.” 

“What on earth could you do?” she asked. 
“ I don’t grudge you the food you eat, or the 
bed you sleep in. Besides, there is money 
enough. Your father squandered all he had in 
riotous living, and then sent a penniless orphan 
for me to care for. That is the way of the 
world. One wastes, and another wants. How- 


AGNES’ STOEY. 


163 


ever, I don’t mind the money, though people 
think me close. So you think you can’t love 
Mr. Grey. Love ! Nonsense ! However, I 
don’t think he will live long. Dr. Barnliam 
has always been afraid that he has consump- 
tion. So perhaps it is just as well that you 
don’t want to marry him.” 

I went back to my room feeling miserable 
enough, after the little cold comfort I got from 
Aunt Wendover. I was half afraid that my 
refusal would hasten Mr. Grey’s end, and I al- 
most hated myself because I must inflict pain 
upon so good a man. 


CHAPTER XIIL 

AGNES’ STORY. 

* I DO not like thee, Doctor Fell — 

The reason why I cannot tell ; 

But this alone I know full well, 

I do not like thee. Doctor Fell.’* 

T WAS not very well the following spring, 
and I could not account for the feeling of 
lassitude that took hold of me ; for I had never 
been sickly. I cared about nothing, I went 
nowhere. I used to lie on my bed with my 
eyes closed, while the days dragged by without 
anything happening. Aunt Wendover some- 
times told me that I did not take sufficient ex- 
ercise, and she advised me to take a brisk run 
down to the shore. I tried to obey her, but my 
gait was anything but brisk. 

Paul came home in J une, and he was scarcely 
in the house before he saw how poorly I 
looked. He called Aunt Wendover’s attention 
to me, and she admitted that I had moped a 
great deal for several months, and she said she 
hoped I would act like myself again now that 
he was home. Paul made no reply. He put 

( 164 ) 


AGNES’ STOEY. 


165 


on his hat and left the house. When he came 
back a little later, Dr. Barnham was with him. 

“ Now, doctor,” I began, “ what has Paul 
been telling you ? ” 

“That is none of your affair, young lady,” 
he said, shaking his head at me. He drew a 
chair up by my lounge, and began questioning 
me. I answered him, all the while protesting 
that I was not ill, only tired and nervous. 

“ Agnes Wendover, I feel like scolding you,” 
he said. “ Here you have been running down 
all these weeks, and you said nothing to your 
old doctor. Do you know what is the matter 
with you ? ” 

“No,” I said, hardly knowing whether to 
laugh or cry. 

“ Well, you are on the verge of nervous pros- 
tration ! Only tired and nervous, eh I I’m 
angry at you. Do you know what I am going 
to do with you ? I am going to pack you off 
to the mountains next week. There, I won’t 
hear a word against it. Nellie and Paul are 
going with you, unless your aunt will go. How 
is it. Miss Wendover ? ” 

“ I think I won’t go, if Mrs. Barnham is will- 
ing to go with her. You are quite right. 
Agnes must go away for a change. I had no 
idea she was so run down, for she did not com- 
plain.” 


166 


WENDOVEK HOUSE. 


Aunt Wendover seemed really frightened 
about me, and she was anxious to get us started 
for the mountains. Paul had already arranged 
everything with Mrs. Barnham, and they had 
agreed upon a mountain resort at some dis- 
tance. Paul’s friend, Stuart, was to be there a 
little later with his sister. Paul said he had 
met her often, and he wanted me to know her. 

Paul managed affairs so quickly that before 
I knew it, we were settled in one of the pret- 
tiest places imaginable. I felt very peaceful 
when I lay down in my little room under the 
shadow of the hills. 

“ Hills draw like heaven,” Mrs. Browning 
wrote, and I think I understood her meaning 
for the first time, for I had never seen moun- 
tains before. Indeed, it was my second out- 
ing ; for excepting that one visit to'the sea-shore 
years before, I had hardly been out of sight of 
the smoke from the Wendover chimneys. 

I gained strength before long, and I felt so 
much happier at once, that Paul seemed de- 
lighted with the success of his experiment. 
After a while I was able to ramble around with 
him, and I enjoyed having him all to myself 
once more. W e fished in the mountain streams, 
geologized and botanized, and romped like two 
children. I forgot the Agnes Wendover who 


AGNES’ STOEY. 


167 


had troubles that made her head ache, I was the 
child Agnes again. 

After a while the Stuarts came, and we were 
obliged to be more conventional. They were 
with us constantly, and I can’t say that I rel- 
ished the change they made. I hardly knew 
what to think of Cecil Stuart, but she seemed 
to like me very much. She was quite a study 
to me, with her airs and graces, her Frenchy 
toilets, and her wonderful crown of golden 
hair. She looked something like Paul, for she 
was tall and graceful, blue-eyed, and exceed- 
ingly fair. She was an accomplished musician, 
and she and Paul were always singing together. 
Somehow, they were constantly together, and 
for the first time I realized how much of a man 
Paul was. He appeared so easy in the society 
we met, that I felt my own awkwardness the 
more. I used to watch the others, and wish 
that I could say bright things, and be at ease as 
they were. But try as I would, I could not. I 
was made in a different mould. I thought 
more slowly, I was only dull little Agnes Wen- 
dover. I knew it was quite natural that Cecil 
and Paul should drift together, both being 
young and beautiful. I usually kept close by 
dear Mrs. Barnham, and watched the others, 
unless Mr. Stuart came to my corner to talk to 
me. I wished that he would not feel obliged 


168 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


to pay me any attention ; for I knew he did it 
merely out of politeness. He must have found 
me dull. 

We spent July there, then Mrs. Barnham 
began to talk of returning. I was much im- 
proved, and I felt quite ready to go back to the 
Island. Indeed, I wanted to creep into my own 
little room and think. So we left, Paul making 
arrangements with the Stuarts to visit us at the 
Island toward the last of August. 

Aunt Wendover greeted me pleasantly. She 
hoped I was not very tired from my journey, 
and she remarked that I looked much better. I 
went to my room quite overcome by the cordi- 
ality of my welcome, for everybody seemed 
glad to meet me. The servants all smiled and 
asked if I^were well again, and the dogs ran to 
meet me. Barbara had taken the trouble to 
gather a bunch of sweet peas and place them in 
a jar on my mantel. It was the first time any 
one had put flowers in my room, and the little 
attention pleased me. 

After dinner, Paul and I strolled down to 
the shore, and stayed there, watching the moon 
rise over the water. 

“Lonely, Agnes?” he asked, throwing him- 
self down on the grass. 

“No,” I said. “I was just thinking how 
pleasant the Island is now.” 


AGNES’ STORY. 


169 


“ It is pleasant, and I hate to think of leaving 
it so soon. However, there is but one year 
more.” 

“And after that? ” I asked. 

“I don’t know, Agnes. I tell you frankly 
that I haven’t made up my mind what I am to 
do with myself. I am ashamed that I have no 
plans, when so many of the fellows have their 
professions chosen. I used to think that I 
would stay home awhile and study medicine 
with Dr. Barnham.” 

“ You could do a great deal of good as a 
doctor. But do you know, Paul, I always 
thought that you would devote yourself either 
to literature or music.” 

“ I don’t know, Agnes ; my efforts seem very 
childish to me. I am afraid that in neither 
literature nor music I would do anything worthy 
the name of art. Perhaps I have nothing but 
an intense love for them, and no talent.” 

“ I think you have great gifts, and I don’t 
see any reason why you should not do some- 
thing worth doing,” I said. “ I wish this year 
was over.” 

“ I almost wish it too, but I enjoy myself at 
college. I shall be glad to get home on your 
account, for I know you are lonely. You really 
ought to go out more, Agnes. As Aunt Wen- 
dover says, you mope too much. It will do you 


170 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


good to liave the Stuarts here. I asked them 
partly on your account. I thought you would 
like Cecil.” 

I couldn’t think of anything to say just 
then. I couldn’t tell Paul that I was glad that 
his friends were coming, and I wouldn’t tell 
him that I was sorry. I sighed, 1 couldn’t help it. 

Paul looked up quickly. “ What is that sigh 
for? ” he asked. 

“ I was thinking of Cecil, how handsome she 
is. It must be lovely to know that it is a 
pleasure for people to look at you,” I said, 
because I wanted to say something in praise of 
Cecil, and I could truthfully say that she was 
handsome. 

“Agnes, you need not envy Cecil or any 
one else,” said Paul kindly. “ You always look 
very pretty to me.” 

“ There is nothing to be said for my looks, so 
I wish you would not try to be complimentary, 
Paul. I am ‘ too low for a high praise, too 
brown for a fair praise, and too little for a great 
praise.’ I wonder that I am so small and insig- 
nificant, for the Wendovers are a tall, hand- 
some race.” 

“ I think she can’t help liking it here,” said 
Paul absently. 

“ Who?” I asked. 

“ Cecil,” he replied, in a matter-of-course 


AGNES’ STORY. 171 

way, as if there was only one person to be 
thought of. 

I bit my lip, but said nothing. I counted the 
days that would elapse before the Stuarts would 
come, and I was sorry to find them so few. I 
sat quietly, watching the moon as it rose over 
the spires of the city across the water. Paul 
seemed busied with his thoughts, for he lay 
with his hands clasped under his head, and he 
was silent for a long time. 

At last he seemed to recall himself, and he 
rose, saying, “Well, Agnes, the moon is up. 
Let’s go in and see Aunt Wendover. I sup- 
pose she will think we are very unsocial.” 

We went into the drawing-room, and Paul 
threw open the shutters to let the moonlight in, 
for he never liked lights. He sat down to the 
piano and began to play. I was always happy 
when he played, and to-night the spirit of har- 
mony seemed to take possession of him. More 
than once I saw Aunt Wendover wipe her 
eyes, and I fancied that Paul was playing some- 
thing that she had been familiar with years 
before. There were several pieces that he 
played that seemed to affect her more than 
others, and one day I knew why it was so. 

It was only a little while till the Stuarts 
came, but I think that Paul was lonely in the 
intervening time. 


172 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


Cecil was more dazzling than ever, and she 
seemed delighted with everything she saw. I 
went to show her to her room, and waited at her 
request while she changed her travelling dress 
for a dainty gown. I watched her while she 
arranged her crimps, and smoothed her drapery, 
and settled her sash. I thought how I could 
have made my toilet in a quarter of that time, 
though I should not have looked as she did 
when all was done, for she looked like a picture. 
Just as we were ready to go down, Miller 
knocked, saying that Miss We.ndover had sent 
her to ask if she could give any assistance. 
Fancy Miller, who gave herself airs, coming to 
wait on me ! But for the rest of Cecil’s stay 
Aunt Wendover managed without her services, 
and she devoted herself to our guest. 

The house seemed transformed that night. 
The table bore its best service of china and 
silver, and the parlors were stripped of the 
brown holland covering that usually protected 
the furniture. Of course there was music and 
much lively conversation, and I was obliged to 
confess that Miss Stuart was charming. 

Aunt Wendover, usually so chary of praise, 
pronounced Cecil a “ fine girl,” and she treated 
her with much consideration. For Aunt Wen- 
dover could be very elegant when she chose. 
Cecil was very kind to me. She always said. 


AGNES’ STORY. 


173 


“ Agnes,” and she insisted that I must call her 
Cecil. I felt ashamed that I did not like her 
better ; but try as I would, I could not conquer 
my dislike, and I would not feign what I did 
not feel. 

She seemed to enjoy herself on the Island, 
and I think the novelty of everything caught 
her fancy. She certainly made the dull house 
brighter by her presence. I could hear her 
humming snatches of songs wherever she was, 
and she was always leaving some of her pretty 
belongings around. Perhaps it was disorderly, 
but it was such a pretty disorder that no one 
felt like criticising her. She would leave a lit- 
tle work basket full of dainty embroidery in 
the broad window seat, a fleecy cloud she called 
a wrap would hang on a chair, and perhaps a 
bunch of flowers from her belt would lay on 
the carpet. And she herself, in her pretty 
gowns, was the brightest thing of all. 

Here, too, Paul and she were always to- 
gether, always playing and singing, and there 
I sat with my mute voice, and all the music 
within me that must remain unexpressed. 

I could not help being glad when our guests 
went away, and the household fell into its 
ordinary routine. A few days later, Paul went 
back to college, and I settled myself to bear 
the long months to come. 


174 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


The time would not have seemed so long if I 
had had some regular employment, but there 
was nothing for me to do. I had long ceased 
reciting to my governess, and my education 
was supposed to be finished. I read, sewed 
a little, and sketched, or practiced music to 
pass the time. I went to Mrs. Barnham's a 
great deal, and helped her make clothes for 
her poor people. I couldn’t do much cutting 
and planning, but she had a wonderful knack 
for such things. She did most of the work, 
and I used to take some of the plain sewing 
home with me. I had plenty of money to spare 
from my allowance, so I helped her in buying 
material. I did not know what else to do with 
it, and I was glad that I could help a little. 

I used to see Mr. Grey occasionally at the 
doctor’s, for it could not well be avoided. His 
manner was perfectly natural, and I sometimes 
wondered if I had not dreamed the whole af- 
fair. It always seemed so strange that a man 
like him should care for a girl like me I Some- 
times I wished that my feelings could change, 
since he wished it ; but it could not be. I had 
never told Paul about my romance, for I felt 
that it would be a breach of faith. It was the 
first secret I ever had from him, and it weighed 
on my coirscience. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Paul’s story. 

I have unclasped 

To thee the book even of my secret soul. 

Shakespeare. 

TTOW often Agnes and I used to talk about 
the mysteries of Wendover House. For 
there were many strange things, and strangest 
of all, was the mystery about myself. I used 
to lie awake many nights, thinking of my 
father and mother, I was certain that Aunt 
Wendover knew all, for she had intimated as 
much, but beyond the promise to tell me every- 
thing when I should be twenty-one, she would 
say nothing. 1 was nearly consumed with cu- 
riosity, but I gave her my promise not to ask 
any questions. As my twenty-first birthday 
drew near, I thought a great deal about her 
promise. I could not wait till the next vaca- 
tion, so I took a flying trip home. They were 
surprised to see me, though I think that Aunt 
Wendover knew why I came. On my birth- 
day morning I went down to breakfast won- 
dering when she would tell me about myself. 

( 175 ) 


176 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


She looked pale and worn when she entered 
the dining-room, and I guessed that there 
was something painful in the past. I pitied 
her, but I‘ felt that I had a right to know my 
history ; it was my due. Agnes, too, was al- 
most as eager as I was, and I promised her 
that she should know all that Aunt Wendover 
should tell me. I loitered about the house all 
the morning, hoping to be summoned to Aunt 
Wendover, but the morning passed, and noth- 
ing was said. 

But as Aunt Wendover left the dining-room 
after lunch, she said, “ Paul, you may come to 
me in my boudoir in a half hour.” 

I was punctual to a minute, but as I knocked 
at her door there was no answer. I gently 
pushed it open, and found, to my alarm, that 
my aunt was lying on the floor in a swoon. I 
raised her, brought water from the dressing- 
room, and at last succeeded in restoring her. 

“Don’t call any one, Paul,” she said, as soon 
•as she could speak ; “ I will be better soon.” 

I fanned her while she rested on the sofa, 
and she soon was herself again. She put out 
her hand and stroked my hair, for I was kneel- 
ing beside her. 

“ You want to hear about your father, Paul ? ” 
she said. 


PAUL’S STORY. 177 

“ Yes, Aunt Wendover, if you feel able to 
talk.” 

“ I can, for I must. It is quite time that I 
told you.” 

She closed her eyes again, and lay without 
speaking, and her face wore a tortured expres- 
sion that I could not bear to see. 

Again I said, “Don’t, Aunt Wendover, if it 
hurts you so to tell it.” 

“ Perhaps if you would ask me questions I 
could tell it more easily,” she said. 

I was only too glad of the permission. “ How 
long did you know papa ? ” I began. 

“ From the time he came here at five years 
old, till he left at twenty-five. Twenty years 
in all.” 

“ He was not related to you ? I remember 
you told me that he was not.” 

“No, he was not. He was a ward of my 
father’s, the child of a dear friend. He called 
my father Uncle Hugh, just as you call me 
Aunt Wendover.” 

“ Aunt Wendover, what is your Christian 
name? I know you must have one, but I 
never heard it.” 

“ Yes, I have one, or I used to have. I was 
named Alicia, but it was painful to hear it when 
all I loved were gone, so except to you and Ag- 
ues, I am Miss Wendover.” 

12 


178 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


“ How did papa look. I remember him best 
after he was worn and ill. Poor papa ! ” As 
I spoke, I saw that she began to tremble again. 

“ Go to that closet and bring out a picture 
that hangs there. Here is the key,’^ she said. 

I opened the door, and stood before one of 
the mysteries of Wendover House — the crape- 
covered picture that had haunted Agnes’ child- 
hood. All at once I began to understand some 
things, and I guessed whose was the face that 
Aunt Wendover had called the falsest and fair- 
est in the world. I carried the picture out and 
leaned it against the wall. “Am i to take off 
the covering?” I asked. 

“Of course. You can’t see through it, can 
you ? ” my aunt asked sharply. “ You’ll find a 
pair of scissors in the work-basket.” 

I needed no second bidding. I worked fast, 
and great drops of perspiration ran down my 
face. After the threads were out, I waited a 
minute, longing, yet dreading to raise the crape. 
A half -suppressed sob from Aunt Wendover 
made me look around. She had risen to her 
feet, and she seemed about to fall. I sprang to 
her side. 

“ Give me your arm, Paul, and let us look at 
the picture together. For twenty-five years I 
have not looked at that face.” 

I raised the crape. As I thought, the face 


PAUL’S STORY. 


179 


was my father’s. I should have known it any- 
where, though he looked much younger and 
stronger than I remembered him I led Aunt 
Wendover back to her chair, and she said, “ Go 
on with your questions, Paul. The worst is 
over now.” 

“ Why is that picture covered with crape ? ” 
was the first question that rose to my lips. 

“ Because my father sent Paul away in an- 
ger. He said that he was dead to us, and he 
ordered the crape put on.” 

“ But, Aunt Wendover, why was your father 
angry with mine ? Papa could not do anything 
wrong.” 

“ You are right, Paul. He could not. The 
trouble all came through a misunderstanding. 
Paul, I loved him ! ” 

I had the clue now. “ 0 Aunt Wendover ! ” 
I cried, “ O Aunt Wendover ! ” 

“ It was not his fault. Everyone had to love 
him, for he had a very winning disposition, and 
though he was manly, he was as gentle as a 
woman. We were brought up as brother and 
sister, and it was my fault if I mistook his 
brotherly affection for something deeper and 
stronger. My father had an iron will, and he 
thought that everything must go according to 
his wishes. My brother Kobert, Agnes’ father, 
had offended him, and he wanted Paul to take 


180 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


the Wendover name and marry me. Oh ! how 
often I have deplored that unbridled temper of 
my father’s ! But I must go on with my story, 
and a shameful one it is! Your father was 
traveling with Dr. Barnham when he met your 
mother and loved her. My father was furious 
when he heard of it, and there was a terrible 
scene that I cannot forget to this day. He 
drove Paul away, and I never saw him again.” 

She waited a few moments, and then went 
on. “It was all owing to that Wendover will 
that would not be thwarted. We all had it, 
my father, Robert, and I. Sometimes I am not 
sorry that the name is dying out. Agnes is the 
last of the family, and she is only a woman. 
But I must hurry, and get done, for it is not 
pleasant to tell such things. I felt bitterly 
enough toward Paul, and my father nursed and 
fed my anger till it was almost as fierce as his- 
Father sent Paul’s little fortune to him, and he 
made me swear that none of the Wendover 
money should ever go to him, no matter how 
much he needed it. I have been so sorry that 
I obeyed him, and I can’t be glad enough that 
he did not make me promise that T would never 
help Paul’s children. Sometimes I feel that I 
am making some poor amends to Paul by try- 
ing to be good to you.” 

“O Aunt Wendover!” I said, “you are 


Paul’s story. 


181 


good to me. You have showed me nothing but 
kindness all these years.” 

“ Is that true, Paul ? Have I never left un- 
done something that might have made you hap- 
pier.” 

“I wish you would be kinder to Agnes,” I 
said. “ Treat her as well as you treat me.” 

“ I’ll try to do betfer, Paul ; but I never 
loved Agnes as I love you. At first she was 
not lovable, and I fancied that she had inherited 
deceit and treachery from her Italian mother. 
But I see nothing of that now, and I do feel 
more kindly toward her.” 

“Aunt Wendover, what do you know about 
my mother?” 

“ Almost nothing, Paul. Of course, I never 
saw her. Dr. Barnham knew her, and you may 
ask him anything you wish. He loved your 
father, and he knows more of our family affairs 
than anyone else does. When you want a 
friend you may place implicit confidence in him.” 

“ How did you come to take me here, Aunt 
Wendover ?” 

“ Your father wrote, asking me to take you. 
I could not send for you before he died, but I 
think he was content, and satisfied that I would 
care for you. You may see his letter, if you 
like. It is not written very plainly ; I suppose 
it is the last bit of writing he ever did.” 


182 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


She opened the secretary, and took out a let- 
ter, yellowed by time. It was scarcely legible ; 
he must have been very feeble, poor papa ! But 
I made out to read it. 

Dear Alicia, — “ I am dying, and I must ask you 
to befriend my child, my little Paul. Perhaps I am 
overbold to ask all this, but I feel sure that for the 
sake of our own childhood you will care for my boy. 
You cannot help loving him, and I hope he will be a 
blessing to you. His mother has been at rest for 
two years, and I shall join her very soon. Tell Paul 
as much or as little of the past as you think best. 
Make a good man of him, and God will surely bless 
you. 

“ Yours for the last time, 

“ Paul.” 

“ Aunt Wendover, did papa leave any 
money ? ” I asked. 

“ No, Paul. I hate to tell you, but he died in 
an almshouse. He had no other refuge, and he 
was unable to work. Can you forgive me for be- 
ing rich when he had no place to lay his head ? ” 

I did not answer her at once. I had never 
realized that the place where we stayed during 
his last days was an almshouse. 

Aunt Wendover must have thought that I 
was not ready to forgive her, for she put out 
her hand and clutched my sleeve. “ Paul, you 
must, you must forgive me,” she pleaded. 

“I do, Aunt Wendover, I do. I think that 


Paul’s story. 


183 


your loving care of me must have atoned for 
any wrong you did.” 

“ Thank you, Paul. 1 am glad you can say 
that ” 

“ Then all the money that I have been spend- 
ing so freely was yours,’' I said, going back to 
the subject I had left. 

“ Yes, but don’t think about it. There is 
money enough, and I don't value it very highly. 
It has never done me any good, and sometimes 
I think it is cursed. I shall he glad when some 
one manages it who will spend it more wisely 
than I have done. I shall make you my heir, 
Paul.” 

“No, no, that would not be right,” I said, 
thinking of Agnes. “I am not of your blood, 
and Agnes is your own niece.” 

“ Of course I shall provide for Agnes. But 
she can never keep the property as I have done. 
It will take a, man to do that.” 

“But I can never take it from Agnes. I am 
a man, and I can earn a place for myself in the 
world.” 

“ What shall you do ? ” Aunt Wendover 
asked, half smiling at my boastful language. 

“ I don’t know yet. Shall you mind if I take 
time to see what I want to do ? ” 

“ Of course not. Should you like to travel, 
to see the world ? ” 


184 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


“ Dearly ! I have always wished to travel. 
But it will cost a great deal, and you have done 
so much for me already, Aunt Wendover.” 

‘‘Never mind the cost. You shall have all 
the money you want. You may go where you 
please, and stay as long as you like. Of course I 
shall miss you, but I want you to have the best 
of everything in the world, and nothing else 
gives the culture that travel brings. You have 
pleased me very much during your college 
course, and I want to please you now.” 

“Thank you very much, Aunt Wendover. 
Then when I finish college I shall set out on 
my travels,” I cried, pleased at the prospect. 
“You are very, very good to me. Aunt Wen- 
dover.” 

I rose and stood looking at my father’s pic- 
ture. 

“ You are very like him,” Aunt Wendover 
said. 

“ I know I am. I can’t look like mamma, for 
she was dark-eyed like Agnes, and she had dark 
curls. I wish I had a picture of her.” 

“You may take your father’s picture and 
hang it in your den if you like.’* 

“ Thank you. I want it where I can look at 
it every day.” 

“ Then all is right between us at last, Paul ? ” 

“ Yes, Aunt Wendover.” 


Paul’s stoky. 


185 


“I am a hard old woman, but you have 
showed me that I have a heart. You have been 
a blessing to me, as the other Paul said you 
would, and I hope we shall yet be very happy 
together. Kiss me, Paul.” 

It was the first time she had ever asked me to 
kiss her, and I was glad she did. I kissed her 
twice, and she laid her hand on my head, with 
a caressing touch. 

“ Try to love the old woman a Uttle,” she 
said, “ for she loves you.” 

“ I do love you. Aunt Wendover, I have al- 
ways loved you.” And I kissed her pale cheek 
again. “Aunt Wendover,” I asked, “do you 
mind my telling Agnes what you have told me ? 
I never have any secrets from her.” 

“ No, tell her as much as you wish,” she said, 
closing her eyes wearily. 

I left her alone, for I could see that she was 
tired. I took my precious portrait to my den 
and hung it above my writing-table, then I went 
in search of Agnes. I found her sewing in the 
breakfast-room, and I called her to come to the 
tower, for I had a secret to tell her. 

Her eyes rested on the strange picture the in- 
stant she entered the room. “ It must be your 
father, Paul,” she said, “ for you look exactly 
like the picture.” 

“It is my father, Agnes. Aunt Wendover 


186 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


has told me everything:. Sit down, and I will 
tell you.” 

“Poor Aunt Wendover!” Agnes said when 
I finished. “I didn’t know that she ever 
loved anyone. No wonder she loves you, Paul. 
I can understand a great many things now.” 

“ So can I. And, Agnes, she thinks a good 
deal of you ; she said so this morning,” I said, 
and if I stretched her words a little, I could 
not be sorry, for the pleased look that came on 
Agnes’ face was good to see. 


CHAPTER XV. 


AGNES’ STOEY. 

If he has friends that love him, 

*Twill set them weeping all. 

Nibelungen Lied. 

T)AUL was graduated the following summer, 
and he wrote begging my aunt and me to 
be present at the commencement exercises. I 
was much surprised when Aunt Wendover an- 
nounced her intention of going, for in all the 
years I had lived with her, I had hardly known 
her to leave the Island. I did not care to go, 
for I was a little timid, and I preferred to stay 
at home to meet them when they returned. 

They came home together. Aunt Wendover 
leaning on Paul’s arm as they came up from 
the wharf. He told me .that Aunt Wendover 
had looked so handsome and stately in her 
black satin and rich lace, that he was proud of 
her. I knew very well that she was proud of 
him, and she had reason to be. 

I could see that Paul had grown mu^h older 
during the last months, and I soon knew what 
had made him a man all at once. He loved, 

( 187 ) 


188 


WENDOVEK HOUSE. 


and lie wore a new dignity. That first evening 
he told us of his engagement, and before he 
named the girl, I knew that it was Cecil Stuart. 
I did not know why I felt that sudden pang at 
the thought, but for a few moments I scarcely 
knew what he was saying, his voice seemed to 
come from a great distance. 

Aunt Wendover seemed pleased, and I im- 
agined that she had wished for this very thing 
since Cecil came to the Island. She was com- 
ing again later in the summer, so Paul said, and 
he was all anticipation. I nerved myself to 
meet her and not falter in showing her the 
necessary attentions. 

Paul talked of her to me almost constantly, 
and that was hardest of all. All his conversa- 
tion was sure to drift to one theme — Cecil. If 
we walked to the western side of the Island to 
see the sun set, he wished that she could be 
there to enjoy it. If we went rowing on a fine 
moonlight night, he wished Cecil could see the 
reflection the moon cast on the water. He 
thought of her constantly, and he saw every- 
thing with her eyes. “ She will be like a sister 
to you, Agnes,” he would say. The Island 
will be much pleasanter for you after she comes 
to stay.” And so he would run on, never 
dreaming that every word stabbed me. 

He used to row over to the city nearly every 


AGNES’ STORY. 


189 


day to get her letter, for he was very particular 
to get them himself. I could tell when he had 
received one, for he would look so bright and 
happy. Cecil always sent loving messages to 
“ dear Agnes,” and I feared Paul was hurt be- 
cause I never said more than “ remember me to 
Cecil,” or “give Cecil my kind regards.” I 
couldn’t say more, though I was sorry to disap 
point Paul. 

They were to be married in the autumn. Al- 
though Paul was very young. Aunt Wendover 
had no objections. She said that life was full 
of disappointments, and Paul need not defer 
his happiness. 

But it was not to be as Paul hoped. Cecil 
Stuart never was worthy of Paul Raymond, 
and I had guessed it all along. One morning 
while he sat talking of her, Hawkins brought 
in the mail. There were several letters for 
Paul, and he eagerly seized a dainty white en- 
velope and broke the seal. “ From Cecil,” he 
said, smiling. I went on with my sewing, and 
when I looked up ten minutes later, Paul’s face 
was set and white, and he was gazing at the 
letter in a bewildered way. 

All at once the truth flashed upon me, and 
when Paul threw the letter to me, saying, 
“ Read that ! ” I knew what was coming. Ce- 
cil wrote to say that she had made a great mis- 


190 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


take, that she was very sorry, but she believed 
it would be better for both if the engagement 
was cancelled, and so on, for six pages. 

I was so indignant that I could not speak. I 
went to bring Aunt Wendover, for I felt that 
I dared not be alone with Paul when he looked 
so downcast. A few whispered words told her 
the whole story, and her face flushed with an- 
ger. She stepped ahead of me, and went right 
to Paul. 

“ Paul, darling, what can I do for you ? ” she 
said, and I never dreamed that her voice could 
be so tender. 

“ Nothing, Aunt Wendover, nothing,” he 
said. “ I can’t think. I seem to be in a 
dream.” 

“No wonder ! Give me the silly flirt’s let- 
ter, Agnes.” 

I handed it to her, then ran to her room for 
her spectacles. 

“Humph!” she said, pushing the glasses 
back from her eyes. “There must be some 
reason for this. Paul, you Avere there but two 
weeks ago ; did you have any reason to expect 
this?” 

“ No, none.” 

My aunt’s eyes roved up and down the 
pages, as if trying to extract some secret. 


AGNES’ STORY. 191 

‘‘ Does Cecil know that you are not my 
nephew ? ” she asked presently. 

“ She did not till my last visit there, when I 
happened to mention it. She supposed that 
Agnes and I were cousins.” 

“ There is a clue to the mystery,” said my 
aunt. “ Miss Cecil does not think it wise to 
marry you. Since you are not my nephew she 
thinks you are not my heir. Well, you may 
tell her that you are, and she may change her 
mind.” 

Paul’s face wore a scornful expression, as h6 
said, “ It is too late now. I could not forget 
this.” 

“You are right!” said my aunt, with much 
decision. “Don’t think of her again. There 
are better women in the world.” 

“But a thing like this hurts one’s faith in 
human nature,” said Paul sadly^. 

“ Poor lad ! poor lad I ” she said, laying her 
hand on his shoulder. 

He put his arm around her, and I turned 
away and left them together. 

I felt very bitterly toward the girl who had 
hurt Paul so cruelly. I knew that the light- 
hearted boy was gone, and that he would never 
come back again. I wished, oh I how I wished 
that she had been true to him. Little did she 


192 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


know how she cheated herself when she threw 
aside a heart like Paul’s ! 

Poor Paul! He looked utterly wretched, 
and I pitied him so that I could have wept for 
him. The days dragged on for two or three 
weeks, and during that time I saw very little 
of Paul. He shut himself up in his little 
study, and I could hear him pacing the floor 
hour after hour. I could do nothing to help 
him bear his trouble, but I used to sit on the 
stairs just outside his door, and fancy that I 
was keeping him company. I felt that some- 
thing must be done ; it seemed so strange that 
he took no interest in his favorite pursuits, and 
I feared that he would die of grief. • 

One morning he came into the room where 
my aunt and I were sitting. He stood before 
her and said, “Aunt Wendover, do you remem- 
ber promising ^ me that I should travel ? I 
want to go away now, if you have no objec- 
tions.” 

Aunt Wendover smiled, glad to have him 
show interest in anything. “ You may go any 
time you like, Paul. But are you going alone ? ” 
she asked. 

He laughed a strange little laugh. “ I didn’t 
mean to, but now I shall,” he said. 

“I thought perhaps one of your friends 
would join you. If there is any one whom you 


AGNES’ STORY. 


193 


would like to have for company, I would be 
willing to pay his expenses.” 

“ No, aunt, I’ve got to fight this trouble out 
alone. And I have more than this to settle. 
I don’t know when I shall come back ; for the 
first time in my life I dislike the Island. I 
cannot be contented here. I am afraid that I 
am disappointing you, and I am more sorry 
than I can say. However, I hope to do better 
by-and-by. If there is anything that you par- 
ticularly want me to be or do, tell me ; I may 
be able to act on your advice some day.” 

“ O Paul, I don’t know that I have any 
plans. I hoped you would love the Island. 
There is excellent society in the city, and if 
you would only make up your mind to come 
back here to live, you could do just as you 
please.” 

“ I don’t think I would enjoy such an idle 
existence. Aunt Wendover. I used to think 
thikt I would do something with my life that is 
worth doing, but now I have no plans. At any 
rate, I must have a change. Perhaps climbing 
the Alps will help me forget.” 

“ I am sure it will. Change of scene will do 
wonders for you. I am glad for your sake that 
you go just now. How soon do you want to 
leave ? ” 

“ There is a steamer that sails in five days ; 

13 


194 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


I think I must go then. I shall telegraph for 
my passage to-day.” 

Paul had few preparations to make, and he 
made those quietly. After all, he was ready 
two days before his steamer was to sail. He 
played a great deal during these last days, and 
he chose the saddest music. The last evening 
he went into the drawing-room and before long 
I heard him playing the Sonate Pathetique, 
He played it as if he felt the heartbreak in it. 
Aunt Wendover sat in the room, but I had for- 
gotten her presence till I heard a half-stifled 
sob. The Sonate affected her as it affected me. 
She rose a moment later, and went into the 
drawing-room, shutting the door after her. 
The music stopped then, and I could hear the 
murmur of their voices. It was Paul’s last 
evening, and though I waited till late, hoping 
that they could come out, they did not come. 
And at last I crept away to bed and sobbed 
myself to sleep. 

We had an early breakfast next morning, for 
Paul had to hurry away. We all pretended to 
eat, and no one dared talk much for fear of a 
break in the voice. 

We stood together on the veranda for the 
last moment, while Paul said good-bye. 

“I’ll try to write. Aunt Wendover, and you 
must promise not to worry about me,” he said. 


AGNES’ STOEY. 


195 


Then he drew her aside, and spoke in a low 
tone, though I heard what he said. “ Be kind 
to Agnes, Aunt Wendover.” 

“ I’ll tr}'- to be, Paul, I will indeed,” she an- 
swered. “ Paul, you must not let this disap- 
pointment hurt you. Other people have come 
through like trials, and they have been none 
the worse. Remember the story I once told 
you, and harbor no bitterness.” 

“1 don’t. Aunt Wendover, but I am hurt, 
though not so deeply that the wound will not 
heal.” 

As he spoke,, he stooped to tighten a strap 
on his valise, but I knew it was done to hide 
his face. Just then John came to take his lug- 
gage, and it was time to part. Paul kissed us, 
and hurried away. As I watched him as the 
boat went over the water, I knew that his 
youth had come to an end. For myself, I went 
into the house, feeling like a middle-aged 
woman. 

That evening I sat alone till I could not en- 
dure the solitude, then I took my work and 
knocked timidly at the door of my aunt’s bou- 
doir. 

I think Aunt Wendover was glad that I came 
to sit with her. She said but little to me, but 
she spoke kindly. I noticed that she often 
looked closely at me, and I felt a nervous de- 


196 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


sire to look in the glass to see if my collar was 
straight and my hair in order. Perhaps, 
though, she was not thinking of me ; her 
thoughts may have been with Paul. 

At last the clock struck ten, and I dared not 
delay longer. I began to roll up my work pre- 
paratory to leaving the room. 

“Are you going, Agnes?” said my aunt. 

“Yes, Aunt Wendover. Good night.” 

“ Good night,” and I noticed with pleasure 
how kind her tone was. I hoped that she 
would heed Paul’s request, and be kinder to 
me. , 

I found a note on my toilet table, and on 
the envelope was written, “ For Agnes.” I 
eagerly seized it, and locking the door, I sat 
down to read it. It ran thus : 

Dear Agnes: “Before I go I want to tell you 
something that I can better put on paper than say 
by word of mouth. I want to thank you for all you 
have been to me through the past years. No sister 
could have been more faithful than you have been, 
and no brother can feel a warmer affection than I 
have and always shall have for you. The trouble 
that has come to me, only makes the friends who are 
faithful seem more dear. I shall think of you while 
I am away among new scenes. It seems sellish tq 
leave you alone, but I must go. I am in doubt 
about many things. Sometimes I even doubt God’s 
goodness. I am in deep waters, Agnes, pray that 
they may not overwhelm me. 


AGNES’ STORY. 


197 


“ I hope you will use my little den, and I shall 
often imagine you sitting there. Use it as much as 
you like, read any papers you please. You will find 
some new ones, and they rnay explain some of my 
doubts. 

“ One thing more, dear, be all to Aunt Wendover 
that you can. Cultivate her a little, even at the risk 
of being rebuffed. There is a warm heart under 
that cold exterior. I have found it so. I think she 
will turn to you when I am away. Sometimes I have 
feared that I stood in your light, but I did not mean 
to. I hope you will draw very near to each other. 
Try to keep her heart warm, don’t let it freeze again. 

“ Good-by, Agnes. Don’t forget to pray for poor 
Paul, who sometimes neglects to pray for himself.” 

For the first time I now knew that Paul had 
doubts. I had always supposed that his sky 
was clear of clouds. I was glad that he had 
told me, for I could make them the subject 
of special prayer. And the precious letter was 
carefully locked away in iny treasure-box, for I 
possessed nothing half so dear as those words 
that told me that I had helped and comforted 
Paul. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


DR. BARNHAM’s story. 


Yet courage, soul! Nor hold thy strength in vain, 
In hope o’ercome the steeps God set for thee. 
Far past the Alpine— summits of great pain 


Bose Terry Cooke. 


Lieth thine Italy. 


HAT a short time it takes to change chil- 



’ ^ dren into men and women ! Sometimes 
we hardly cease petting the child before the 
man or woman stands before us. It was some- 
thing like that with Agnes and Paul. Agnes 
grew up first. She was a very attractive little 
body, though she never suspected such a thing. 
She always thought herself positively homely, 
and no one could convince her of the contrary. 
But she was goodness itself. If she had not 
been, she might have been jealous of Paul, for 
Miss Wendover made a great difference between 
the two. Paul must have every wish granted, 
or, rather, anticipated, but she never seemed to 
dream that Agnes was almost dying of stifled 
cravings. 

I did hope that Agnes would love Arthur 
Grey. I thought that would solve everything. 


( 198 ) 


DR. barnham’s story. 199 

and give her a future bright enough to com- 
pensate for the barren past. I thought at first 
that she did not know her own mind, and I 
longed to whisper to Arthur, to take heart of 
grace. Nellie felt even worse than I did. In- 
deed, in her pity she might have interfered too 
much, if I had not stopped her. It seemed 
that Arthur had made a confidante of her long 
before, so she could not bear to give it up. I 
think she talked to Agnes, but she got no sat- 
isfaction from her. 

Poor Agnes must have been lonelier than 
ever after that happened, for she stopped com- 
ing to our house. I knew that she dreaded to 
meet Arthur, for he had been here a great deal, 
on her account, I suppose. We grew lonely 
ourselves, for Arthur stayed away too, I sup- 
pose in order to save Agnes any embarrass- 
ment. When I remonstrated with him, he told 
me that he meant to absent himself a good deal 
because he wished Agnes to come here as 
usual. So I went to her, telling her that we 
could not do without her, and begged her to 
come to us again. 

I saw that a change had come to the poor 
child’s face in those few weeks. Her first 
trouble had come to her, and it had left its 
mark. It is said that sorrow makes us strong, 
and I think it must, else a good God would not 


200 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


allow it to come to so many of us. Neverthe- 
less, I knew that Agnes never could be quite 
the same after that experience, and I wished it 
could have had a happier ending. 

But that was not all. Paul, too, had a taste 
of the ministry of sorrow. I never liked Cecil 
Stuart, and I wondered that, with all her 
shrewdness. Miss Wendover did not read her 
more correctly. She was a shallow, silly 
coquette, but so pretty that one almost forgave 
her her silliness. It seemed a sad waste of 
good material to see a fellow like Paul Ray- 
mond deliberately falling in love with a girl of 
Cecil’s stamp. But I suppose it had to be, and 
sad as these experiences are, they are salutary. 
I could have foretold that she would fail Paul 
sometime ; but I thought she*would marry him. 
I foresaw conquest for Cecil, and a life-long dis- 
cipline for Paul. But heaven was kinder to 
him than he realized at the time. Miss Cecil 
took the idea into her pretty head that as Paul 
was no kin of Miss Wendover, he would not be 
likely to have much at her death. She had an 
ambitious, engineering mamma, and they judged 
that a “ bird in the hand was worth two in the 
bush.” A rich widower wanted to marry Cecil, 
and he was the bird in the hand. So Paul, was 
rejected, but he knew enough to go away on a 
long tour, and Miss Wendover packed him off. 


DR. barnham’s story. 201 

“ Do you suppose he will get over it ? ” she 
asked me the first time I saw her after Paul 
left. 

“ Of course he will,” I said. “ He will be 
more of a man for this. It is not good for us to 
have everything we want. Paul will sometime 
love a woman who is worthy even of him, and 
he will bless the day that Cecil Stuart played 
him false.” 

I took Paul into my office and talked freely 
to him. I quoted the words of Robert Cham- 
bers, “ Books are the blessed chloroform of the 
mind. I wonder how folks in trouble did with- 
out them in old time.” And I reminded him 
how when Goethe lost his son he plunged into 
the study of a new science. I knew that if 
Paul’s old love for study once took possession of 
him, he would be safe. I gave him a letter of 
introduction to an old friend of mine in Got- 
tingen. He is a distinguished professor now, 
though he was a poor student when I first knew 
him. 

I went down to the city with Paul, and parted 
with him on the steamer. He looked tragic 
and hopeless enough, but I knew he would get 
over that. 

After Paul was off I returned home and went 
over to the Island and tried to carry some com- 
fort to the two lonely women left behind. 


202 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


Both were sad enough, and Agnes, especially, 
looked miserable, I asked her if she was feel- 
ing ill, and she shook her head. Poor girl, 
what a relief it would have been to her if she 
could have gone away and lost her troubles in 
travel. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

AGNES’ STORY. 

The God of the Christian is a God of metamorph- 
oses. You throw grief into his hand, and he will 
give you back peace ; you give him despair, he will 
send back hope ; it is a sinner he has touched, a saint 
returns him thanks.— Afme. Swetchine. 

“PAUL’S letfers came but seldom, and they 
were very short and unsatisfactory. He 
wrote merely to keep us from being anxious 
about him. He mentioned the places he visited 
in a cursory way, as if all were alike to him. 
Dr. Barnham had given him letters to a friend 
of his, in Germany, a specialist in medical 
science, and Paul took up his old plan of 
studying medicine. 

Aunt Wendover heaved a sigh of relief when 
she heard that news. “I feel better now. 
Study will help him, I hope. I could not bear 
to think of his misery. I would have been 
willing to suffer for him if such a thing were 
possible. Do you think that he has any other 
trouble besides his disappointment about Cecil?” 

I did not know what to say at first, but after 

( 203 ) 


204 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


a moment I told her the truth, that Paul was in 
doubt. She put her hand up to her face, and 
for some time she sat motionless. I did not 
know what to think of her silence. I did not 
suppose that she would feel so sorry over 
Paul’s doubts, and yet there was grief in every 
line of her figure. 

After a while she took her hand from her face 
and said, or rather, moaned, “ The curse has 
come upon me ! Because I would not believe, 
God has stricken me through the being I love 
best. Oh, Paul must get back his faith ! His 
life will be wrecked without it I I have lived 
so many years saying that I did not believe, and 
it was an awful life ! But, Agnes, I believed 
all the time in my heart. I was rebellious be- 
cause God would not give me what I most 
wanted, and as if I could punish him, I said I 
would have nothing to do with him. I kept 
my word all through those bitter years, and 
now he has punished me in the worst way. I 
never taught Paul wrong. I dared not ; for his 
father, in his last moments, begged me to 
make a good man of him. I sent the child to 
church, and I never told him that I thought 
such things were foolish. And Paul, the last 
one in the world to fall that way ! I thought 
that he was rooted and grounded in the faith, if 
any one ever was. Oh! I can’t stand it, I 


AGNES’ STORY. 


205 


can’t ! O God ! If Paul gets back his old 
faith, I will serve thee through the few days re- 
maining to me.” 

The last sentence sounded like an ejaculatory 
prayer, and I listened in amazement. 

“ Help me, Agnes, tell me what to do,” she 
went on. “I am as ignorant as a child, but I 
want to save Paul from my bitterness.” 

I fervently wished for some one older and 
wiser than I, for I did not know what to say to 
her. I breathed a prayer for direction, and then 
I said, “Aunt Wendover, make good that 
promise you made just now. Serve God all the 
rest of your life, and see if he will not bring 
Paul through to the light. It is not his will 
that any should perish, and surely a soul like 
Paul’s must be precious in his sight.” 

“ I have been thinking about these things for 
some time. Paul himself first made me see 
what a hard woman I am, and now he is in 
darkness and doubt. Yes, yes, I must have a 
change, I cannot live like this any longer. My 
burden is greater than I can bear. But how 
late my repentance, how late my repentance ! 
Agnes, you must help me. I have never 
treated you very well, but you must forgive me 
and help me through this. If I live. I’ll be a 
better aunt to you in the future.” 

“O Aunt Wendover!” I cried, taking her 


206 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


hand, “ we may be happy yet. I will do all I 
can to help you, and you must do much for 
yourself. We both will pray, and you know 
that God has promised to hear.” 

“ Yes, but 1 am a hard-hearted old Pharisee. 
You are a good girl, Agnes, and I hawe known 
it a long time. I am not blind, though I may 
seem so. Your quiet, useful life has been a con- 
stant reproach to me, and I might have learned 
much from you if I had not been so proud. 
Agnes, will you try to love me a little! ” 

She spoke the words very wistfully, and I 
was very glad to hear them. I put up my face 
to kiss her, for T was too happy for speech. She 
kissed me for the first time in her life, and then 
we wept together. I knew that the old hard- 
ness was gone ; we loved each other at last. 

“ I wish Paul could know all this,” I said, 
for I knew how happy the news would make 
him. 

“ I shall tell him all, you may be sure, Agnes, 
I shall tell him how mistaken I have been, and 
how I yearn to make amends in the future. I 
am in earnest, and I never was one to do things 
by halves. With God’s help, there will be a 
change in my life. Now I am going to write 
to Paul.” 

After she left, I went to my room to think 
over the events of the morning, for the sudden 


AGNES’ STORY. 


207 


change had dazed me. How often my imagina- 
tion had pictured such a scene ; how often I 
had prayed for the very thing that had just 
happened, and now that it had happened, I was 
surprised. Where can our faith be when we 
are surprised at the answer to our prayers ? Do 
we think that because our prayers are not an- 
swered as soon as offered, that the Lord’s arm is 
shortened that he cannot save ? 

I, too, began a letter to Paul that day, but 
before I sent it, I received one from him. It 
told me more of his trouble of mind than I had 
known before, and I began to understand it 
better. I had thought it very strange that one 
so deeply religious as Paul should be called to 
pass through a trial of that sort. ^ But I began 
to see that he was passing through that season 
through which many who truly believe have 
passed some time. Those who have conquered 
doubts best know in whom they believe, and 
why they believe. God would surely appear 
again as the “ Chief among ten thousand, and 
the one altogether lovely.” Poor Paul ! I 
could not go with him through his trial, but I 
could pray that it might be short. 

After that day. Aunt Wendover clung closely 
to me. One day she said to me, “ Agnes, can 
you lend me a Bible? ” I want to read to my- 
self some of the chapters I used to hear you and 


208 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


Paul read together. I want to study it as one 
studies a guide book.” 

I ran to get her a Bible. She carried it to 
her room and shut the door. 

The next day was Sunday, and as I dressed 
for church, I resolved to ask Aunt Wendover 
to go with me, though I had little hope that she 
would consent. I knew that I if I were in her 
place I would shrink from making my appear- 
ance in church, for it would cause so much 
comment. 

But, to my surprise, I found Aunt Wend- 
over dressed with even more than her usual 
care, and her first words were, “ Agnes will you 
take me to church to-day?” 

How glad I was, but I did not say any- 
thing about my surprise. John looked volumes 
when he saw her coming down to the wharf 
with me, and in his amazement he forgot to 
bring the cushions from the boat-house. My 
aunt reproved him sharply, and after that he 
had his senses about him. 

“I presume that people will stare to-day,” 
said Aunt Wendover, as we walked to the 
church. “ One thing is certain, they cannot 
say more than is true. I hope I shall not shock 
Arthur Grey so that he cannot preach.” 

I saw surprise written on more than one face 
as we walked up the broad aisle. Miss Wen- 


AGNES’ STORY. 


209 


dover had been well known in the city during 
her gay young days, and no one who had ever 
seen that handsome, set face, and tall, straight 
figure, could easily forget it. 

“As it happened, I knew what Mr. Grey’s 
subject was to be, for Mrs. Barnham had men- 
tioned it, and I was sorry that it was not more 
adapted to Aunt Wendover’s needs. But to 
my surprise, when he announced his text it was 
this: “Come now, and let us reason together, 
saith the Lord : though your sins be as scarlet, 
they shall be as white as snow ; though they be 
red like crimson, they shall be as wool.” 

The sermon that followed was a plain setting 
forth of the relation between Christ and the 
sinner. It was so simple that a child might 
understand it, and so logical that a philosopher 
could pick no flaws in it. I guessed then, and 
I afterward learned that I was right ; Mr. 
Grey had changed his mind, for the sight of 
Aunt Wendover sitting there, had given him a 
new text, and he had spoken right from his 
heart. 

Once or twice I stole a look at my aunt. To 
all appearances, she sat unmoved, but knowing 
her expressions so well I saw that she felt 
deeply ; for her bosom heaved, and her breath 
came hard and fast. 

Dr. Barnham and his wife came up to speak 

14 


210 wendoyer house. 

to us at the close of the service, and so did Mr. 
Grey. 

“ It seems good to see you here, Alicia,” said 
the good doctor, shaking hands warmly. Mrs. 
Barnham, too, gave her hand, and her sweet 
face was aglow with sympathy, though she said 
nothing in words. “ Will you come with Agnes 
and spend the rest of the day with us ? ” she 
asked, and the doctor warmly seconded her 
invitation. 

But Aunt Wendover kindly refused, saying 
that she might go some other day. I whispered 
a word to Mrs. Barnham and so excused my- 
self. We walked through the streets without 
speaking, but just as we reached the boat. Aunt 
Wendover seemed to notice my presence, and 
she said, “ Why, Agnes ! I thought you were 
going to the doctor’s. Go back yet, it is not 
too late.” 

“ I prefer to go home with you. Aunt,” I said, 
and she did not press the matter further. I 
think she wanted me near her, even though she 
seldom spoke to me. 

That evening we did not go to church. We 
sat in the twilight, in silence. Once my aunt 
startled me by saying, “ Agnes, I would be will- 
ing to be lost myself if, I could save him ! ” 

“ To save whom. Aunt Wendover? ” I asked. 

“ Paul, of course. I would be willing to be 


AGNES’ STORY. 


211 


lost if that would save him. I have thought 
about it all day.” 

“Aunt Wendover, there is no need of such 
a thing, even if it could be possible ! ” I cried, 
horrified. “ Let me tell you again that God 
wills not that any should perish. Paul will see 
the light ; of that I am certain. God is trying 
him for some reason. He knows where he is 
leading him. Perhaps our dear Paul has some 
special work to do, and this may be God’s way 
of fitting him for it. Surely one who has con- 
quered doubt can best help others who are 
in like troubles. Paul has a mission in the 
world. Do you remember how he used to 
lie awake at night and cry over the misery 
in the world ? Paul has the spirit of Christ, 
and how can he be lost? Sometimes I think 
that his trouble was sent to lead you to Christ. 
You say that nothing could hurt you as this 
has hurt you. God sent his sharpest arrow 
through your soul when he touched Paul.” 

“ Why, Agnes, how did you learn so much 
wisdom? I never dreamed that you thought 
so deeply,” said my aunt, regarding me with 
surprise. “I think there is much reason in 
what you say, but how can you see so clearly ? 
You are wise in things that are of the most 
vital importance, and I am as ignorant as a 
child. But I am seeking to learn,” she added. 


212 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


“ And Christ is willing and waiting to teach,” 
I said. 

If I said anything that helped her it was God 
speaking through me in answer to my prayers. 
For in those days I prayed almost constantly 
for guidance. I never in my life felt more 
humble, and if I had ever felt any spiritual 
pride, it had left me. 

As the days went on, I could see that Aunt 
Wendover was changing gradually. I think 
she was too distrustful of herself, or she would 
have known how rapid was her progress in the 
new life. She did not try to serve God and 
Mammon. Long before the change came, I 
used to think, “What a Christian Aunt Wen- 
dover would make ! ” for as she said, she was 
not one to do anything half-way. 

I waited anxiously for Paul’s next letter. I 
hoped he would have some good news to tell, 
for, somehow I thought that Aunt Wendover ’s 
change must make a difference in his feelings. 
But bis letter was not what I had hoped for. 
Of course he said that he was very glad and 
thankful to hear such good news of Aunt 
Wendover. But in my letter he wrote that he 
saw no light yet, though he was sure that the 
day must dawn some time. I felt sure of it too, 
though tears blinded my eyes as I read the page. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

AGNES’ STOKY. 

Sorrow comes to all ; 

Our life is checked with sorrows manifold ; 

But woman has this more— she cannot call 

Her sorrow by its name.— Jean Ingelow. 

fT^HE first winter after Paul left, seemed in- 
terminable. The weather was unusually 
cold, and we were almost entirely cut off from 
communication with the mainland. On some 
days when the wind roared around the house, 
and the storm beat against the windows, I felt 
that I should go mad with the loneliness of it. 
There was one bright spot, however, in my 
dark existence — the perfect confidence between 
Aunt Wendover and myself. We felt kindly 
toward each other, and we sat and worked to- 
gether, though we never talked much. 

Still, when she did feel like having any con- 
versation, I learned a great deal that I wished 
to know about the history of the past. She 
talked to me of my father, and she told me 
of all the long ago dead and gone Wen- 
dovers. They were not relatives to be proud 
of, at least, many of them were not, and I was 
glad that I had not their proud, imperious na- 

( 213 ) 


214 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


ture. I once said to my aunt that I must be 
like my poor Italian mother, for I was no Wen- 
do ver. 

She thought a moment, then she said, “Yes, 
perhaps you are right. And it may be well for 
you that you are. Of course, I know nothing 
about her, but your father loved her dearly, so 
he said. It must have been a strong attach- 
ment to cause him to forget his position and 
marry a girl poor enough to sit to him for a 
model.” 

“That did not hurt her,” I said gently, for I 
felt tender toward the memory of the mother I 
had hardly known. 

“ Of course not. What I have told you is 
only rumor. I only know that my brother 
married in Italy, and that he left a daughter. 
I used to feel that you were a great burden, 
Agnes. You can’t imagine how I hated to 
have the deadly stillness of the house broken 
by the presence of a child. I resolved when 
you first came that I would make you so quiet 
that you would not disturb me. I kept my re- 
solve so well that I nearly crushed the child- 
hood out of you, and broke your spirit. It 
was well for me, and well for you that Paul 
came. I did not dare put him through the 
same discipline that I had put you ; he would 
have died under it. I used to smile in spite of 


AGNES’ STORY. 


215 


myself to see how he was changing me. God 
must have sent him to keep my hard old heart 
alive, for it was fast turning into stone.” 

A little later Aunt Wendover sighed, and 
said, I wish he could be with us to-night ! I 
can almost fancy that I hear him playing; he 
always played so much at twilight. Agnes, it is 
too dark to see to sew. Can’t you play for 
me ? Music will do us good.” 

I put my work away at once, and opened 
the piano. It was a new thing for my aunt to 
ask me to play. I was willing to please her, 
but I never sat down to the piano without feel- 
ing nervous. I know she tried to be patient 
with my bungling, but sometimes she would 
call out, “ Agnes, don’t drag that so ! ” or, 
“ Agnes, do put a little more feeling into that 
passage. Remember how Paul would play it.” 

I didn’t mind her criticisms so much, for I 
knew I tried her with my stupidness. When 
she asked me to play some sweet, old-fashioned 
melodies, I succeeded better with them. As 
soon as I saw that she had any interest in my 
playing, I resolved to improve, and to that end, 
I practiced regularly every day. She saw my 
desire to please her, and she said, “ You must 
have a teacher, Agnes. . Just as soon as spring 
comes, I shall see about it. Paul will be de- 
lighted if you take up music in earnest.” 


216 


WENDOVEB HOUSE. 


But the spring was a long way ahead, when 
January snows were piled around the house. 
And, I used to mope a great deal. If Aunt 
Wendover had been the aunt of ten years be- 
fore, I don’t know how I could have lived 
through it all. I say all, for I worried over 
Paul’s worries, and, besides, I had a trouble 
that I would scarcely confess to myself, much 
less speak of. Nevertheless, I feared that 
Aunt Wendover’s sharp eyes read my secret. 
She seemed to look right through me. 

One evening I sat thinking, thinking, till the 
needle slipped from my listless fingers. In 
spite of myself, my voice forced itself through 
my throat, and I sobbed. I was sorry in an 
instant, and I hoped that Aunt Wendover had 
not heard it. I picked up my sewing, and be- 
gan to stitch steadily. When I dared, I looked 
up, and I saw that she was looking intently at 
me. 

“Agnes, Mr. Grey seems likely to live a 
bachelor life,” she said. “ I believe he has 
never had a thought for any one but you. 
Have you never been sorry for the answer you 
once gave him? ” 

I was relieved that she had nothing worse to 
say, for lately, I had begun to dread her eyes. 
Thus reassured, I held up my head, and went 
on with my sewing. 


AGNES’ STORY. 


217 


“ Agnes, look up ! ” and I had to obey her. 
“Agnes,” she said kindly, “I know why you 
cannot love Arthur Grey. It is because you 
love Paul. Is it not so ? ” 

I hid my face on the table. In an instant 
Aunt Wendover came to me and laid her hand 
on my shoulder, and she said kindly, “ Agnes, 
child, I know, I know. You can’t think how 
sorry I am for you. I have guessed this for 
some time, and for a few weeks I have been 
sure.” 

“O Aunt Wendover!” I faltered, “ do you 
think any one else has suspected it ? ” 

“ No, I think not. You have kept your se- 
cret well, Agnes. Oh I it is the Wendover curse 
to be disappointed in love. I am sorry you 
must feel it, too. I know just what you are 
going through, and I can sympathize with you. 
I loved Paul’s father, and you love Paul. This 
makes another tie'between us. We must love 
each other all the more now, Agnes.” 

She shed tears of sympathy, and I had no 
longer any need to keep mine back. I felt re- 
lieved that she knew my secret, for it had been 
hard to bear. I had imagined that she would 
be angry if she knew the truth, for I thought 
she held Paul much above me. So I was sur- 
prised to hear her say, as she stroked my hair, 
“ Agnes, I wish it could be ! I believe it would 


218 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


make me very happy. There is no reason why 
it should not be, except that people who are 
brought up together seldom love in that wa3^ 
I suppose there is more charm in a new face. 
Who knows but all will come around right yet ? 
I’m sure I hope so.” 

“ O Aunt Wendover ! You will never 
breathe a word to — him ? ” 

“ You need not have any fears that I will betray 
your secret. It is safe with me. I will try to 
help you bear it, for I know what it is. Your 
trial can never be as bitter as mine, for you 
cannot cherish enmity as I did. Oh how wrong 
I was, how wrong I was ! I am glad I am a 
different woman at last; but I look with regret 
on all those wasted years.” 

“ Aunt Wendover, don’t you think you ought 
to join the church? ” I asked. 

“ I don’t know, Agnes. I hardly feel satis- 
fied yet, and still, I don’t want to put it off too 
long. I want to belong with God’s people be- 
fore I die, and I cannot tell how short my time 
may be.” • 

“O Aunt Wendover!” I cried in dismay; 
“ What makes you say that ? ” 

“ I have known for a long time that I have 
heart disease. Any sudden excitement may 
make it worse. Besides, I feel that I am fail- 


AGNES’ STORY. 219 

ing quite fast. Well, I can’t expect to be 
young any more.” 

“ Won’t you be careful, Aunt Wendover ? ” I 
begged. “I can’t bear the thought of losing 
you.” 

She smiled when I said that, and replied, “ I 
am glad you care so much for me, Agnes. I 
know you mean what you say, for you can’t 
feign anything. I would like to live for your 
sake, if for nothing else. You are peculiarly 
situated, you have no relatives, and I don’t 
know to whom you can turn after I am gone. 
I used to think that I should leave the bulk of 
the property to Paul, and only a legacy to you ; 
but I shall not do you such an injustice. You 
and Paul shall share alike. There will be for- 
tunes for both, for I have been very successful 
in my business affairs. I suppose you ought to 
have the house left to you, but I hate to think 
of your living a lonely life like mine — another 
Miss Wendover on Wendover Island.” 

The winter wore away slowly, and at last the 
tardy spring came. We welcomed it joyfully, 
for we had been in durance long. 

Paul had written occasionally through the 
winter, and we knew that he was studying 
hard. He said little about himself, and we had 
to be content with the fragmentary letters we 
received. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


AGNES’ STORY. 


Death is not always a matter for grief. If you 
have ever beheld a rich sunset from the summit of a 
lofty mountain, you will remember how the world, 
was transfigured before you in the glory of resplen- 
dent light, and how, long after the light had faded 
from the cloud-drapery, and long after the hills had 
begun to lose themselves in the abyss of darkness, 
there lingered a glory in the western horizon — a joy- 
ous memory of the splendid pomp of the evening. — 
Edward Eggleston. 


T^HEN the weather was fine again, Aunt 
Wendover often sent me over to Dr. 
Barnham’s. I had scarcely been there during 
the winter, and I was glad to take up my habit 
of visiting them. We had attended church 
very seldom while the cold weather lasted, so I 
had seen Mr. Grey but a few times. The first 
time I met him at the doctor’s I was shocked at 
the change in him. He was very thin, and he 
coughed almost constantly. I asked Mrs. Barn- 
ham if he was ill, and she told me that he had 
contracted a very severe cold in the winter, 
and that he had never recovered from its effects. 
And she added sadly that she feared he never 

t220) 


AGNES’ STORY. 


221 


would. And then she told me how it all came 
through his care for others. A lad, one of his 
night-school boys, had fallen into the river, and 
as he did not know how to swim, he was in 
danger of drowning. Arthur Grey stood near 
by, and he plunged in after him, and succeeded 
in bringing him safely to land. He spent some 
time in seeing 'that the boy was sent home, and 
he never thought of his own wet clothes, till 
Dr. Barnham happened along, and hurried him 
home. But it was too late to avoid a severe 
chill, and it left Mr. Grey with a cough and a 
weak chest. He had always had a tendency 
toward consumption, and the doctor feared that 
his disease had become settled. Mr. Grey 
would not own that he was ill, nor would he 
drop any of ^his work. The old pastor had 
grown so feeble that nearly all the parish work 
fell to Mr. Grey. I knew that Dr. Barnham 
had little hopes of him unless he rested alto- 
gether, and I knew also, that a nature like Ar- 
thur Grey’s would work till the last. 

“ If he does not grow better this summer. I’ll 
send him to Egypt or to Italy before next wim 
ter,” growled the doctor, looking after his 
cousin. “ I could* cry over him if it would do 
any good. Such a useful life as his is, and to 
lose it in such a way ! I can’t see the reason 


222 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


for some things,” and the doctor rumpled his 
hair and looked the picture of despair. 

When I reached home I ran to tell Aunt 
Wendover the sad news before I removed my 
wraps. 

“ Dear me, Agnes,” she said, “ I hope ifc is 
not so bad as that ! He may get better, people 
often recover if they are careful. And the doc- 
tor will send him to a warmer climate before 
another winter.” 

“ I am afraid that he will take a longer jour- 
ney before that time,” I said, drawing off my 
gloves. “ Mrs. Barnham must think so too ; 
for she cried when she spoke of him. She and 
the doctor love him dearly.” 

“ And well they may, for he has a beautiful 
soul. He is as fine as a woman in his feelings. 
Paul is much like him, and I am glad he could 
be so much with Mr. Grey while he was grow- 
ing up.” 

A little later my aunt said, “ I am sorry that 
we were obliged to miss church so much last 
winter, for Mr. Grey may not fill the pulpit 
much longer. Let us hear him every time we 
possibly can. His preaching always helps me, 
and I shall miss him if the worst happens. But 
don’t look so down-hearted, Agnes, let us hope 
for the best. 

“ He does look badly,” she said on the Sab- 


AGNES’ STORY. 


223 


bath, as we were coming from church. “I 
would not have believed that such a change 
could be worked in so short a time. I don’t 
think that he is long for this world. And he 
preaches as if he looked beyond the vail and 
saw with more than mortal vision.” 

I couldn’t answer her. 

After we reached home she said, “ Agnes, I 
think I should like to join the church while Mr. 
Grey is there. My own time may be near. 
Until to-day I have not been quite satisfied.” 

Accordingly, a few weeks later Aunt Wen- 
do ver joined the church, Mr. Grey reading the 
service. And I thought that his voice trem- 
bled as if he had more than an ordinary inter- 
est in her. He must have learned a great deal 
of her history, and who knows how much he 
had labored for her salvation. 

It seemed strange and sweet to partake of 
the Lord’s Supper side by side with Aunt 
Wendover, and my thoughts kept straying back 
to the time when Paul and I had joined the 
church. How little we thought then that 
Aunt Wendover would ever stand before the 
altar, and yet even that strange thing had come 
to pass. 

It was the saddest day I ever spent, glad as 
I was over Aunt Wendover. Paul’s trouble 
weighed upon me as if it had been my own, 


224 


WENDOVEK HOUSE. 


and he had never seemed so far away. Aunt 
Wendover was rapidly failing, and Mr. Grey 
was surely and swiftly going into another 
world. “ What have I left ? ” I asked myself. 
And a still, small voice seemed to whisper, “ I 
will not leave you comfortless : I will come to 
you.” 

But in the evening the crushing sense of 
sadness came again. It rained, and we did not 
attempt to go to church. I lay on the lounge 
with my face buried in the pillows, and gave, 
up to my sad thoughts. 

“Agnes, are you crying?” Aunt Wendover 
asked at length. 

“No,” I answered. 

“ I can’t bear to see you so unhappy. What 
is it, my dear ? Is there anything new ? ” 

There was no answer, and she went on. 

“Are you thinking of Mr. Grey? Agnes, 
are you sure that you did not make a mistake ? 
Sometimes we don’t see clearly till some one 
dear to us stands close to death. Perhaps you 
care for him more than you knew.” 

“ More than I knew, perhaps, but only in the 
old way. He was my friend when I was a 
child, and both Paul and I loved him ! ” 

“ I remember. He was kind to you when I 
cared nothing for you. Poor Paul ! how sorry 


AGNES’ STOEY. 


225 


he will be to hear this news. Have you writ- 
ten it, Agnes ? ” 

“ No, I could not bear to write it. I kept 
putting it off. I think he would come home if 
he thought the end was very near.” 

“ I think he would, poor lad ! How I long 
to see him ! ” 

I didn’t say that I wanted to see him, though 
perhaps my wish laid even deeper than Aunt 
Wendover’s. 

That summer passed somehow. I cannot 
remember what happened, or what I did. We 
heard from Paul very seldom, and he wrote 
nothing but commonplaces. This silence about 
himself hurt both Aunt Wendover and me, but 
we did not let him know it. He was traveling 
in Norway with some student friends ; he was 
quite well, he missed us, and that is about all 
we could learn from his letters. 

It was very dull for us, for the Baruhams 
took Mr. Grey off to the sea-shore, and I missed 
my visits there. The news from Mr. Grey was 
not encouraging. The doctor wrote that he 
seemed to improve a little at first, but he sank 
again after a few days, and the doctor was 
forced to see that the disease was gaining daily 
despite all his efforts. He brought the sick 
man back just on the edge of the autumn, for 
no place seemed so much like home to him. 

15 ■ 


226 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


His parents were dead, and while his brothers 
and sisters had plenty of affectionate solicitude 
on his account, they could not do for him what 
the doctor and his wife could. He went to 
their house, and all that affection could sug- 
gest, they did for him. 

Aunt Wendover and I went to see him soon 
after his return. We found him lying on the 
lounge in Mrs. Barnham’s pretty parlor, with 
his Greek Testament in his hand. He tried to 
rise as we entered, but Aunt Wendover mo- 
tioned him to lie still. 

“ You see. Miss Wendover, they are trying to 
make me believe that I am a sick man,” he 
said, smiling as he gave her his hand. 

He held it out to me a moment after. It was 
a pale, thin hand, scarcely larger than my own. 

The doctor and his wife came in as soon as 
we were seated, and they talked a great deal 
about their summer trip. But gay as their 
words were, I caught an undertone of sadness. 
The pale man on the sofa talked but little, but 
he seemed interested in all we said. 

Mrs. Barnham urged us to stay to tea, and 
she had the tea things brought into the parlor, 
for she would not allow Mr. Grey to walk to 
the dining-room. The pretty tea-table, the 
faces that bore marks of pain despite the 
smiles they tried to wear, and best of all, I re- 


AGNES’ STORY. 


227 


member the face in the background that wore 
only weakness, no sorrow. 

After his return the disease did its work 
quickly. Dr. Barnham wanted to take him to 
a warmer climate for the winter, but he begged 
for a respite ; for the weather was still fine, and 
winter seemed long in the distance. So the 
days passed, until he was too weak to be moved. 
I think he was glad that it was so, for he 
wished to finish his life among his people. 

Aunt Wendover and I went often to see him, 
carrying the choicest gifts that we could find to 
tempt his appetite. Mrs. Barnham said he 
watched for our coming, and he always seemed 
pleased when we entered the room. I had little 
to say to him in those days ; perhaps it was be- 
cause I felt so much. I dreaded to be alone 
with him, and he must have known it, for one 
day when the others chanced to be out, he 
called me to his side. 

“Agnes, come here, please,” he said, and I 
went and sat by his lounge. 

I couldn’t think of anything to say, and I let 
my eyes drop on my lap. When I looked up, 
I saw that he was looking at me very kindly 
and tenderly. 

“ Agnes, tell me, child, that you are not 
grieving over a certain thing that I once wished. 
Sometimes I fear that you are.” 


228 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


“ O Mr. Grey ! I am, I can’t help it ! ” I 
cried. “I wish now that I had given you a 
different answer if it would have made your 
last days happier.” 

“ Dear little friend,” and he reached out his 
hand and clasped mine, “it would not have 
made me happy unless it had made you happy too. 
You were quite right to answer as you did. 
Now I want you to promise me that you will 
not grieve after — you know what I mean. 
Don’t look so sorry, Agnes. You know that I 
am gaining a great deal by exchanging this 
world for the other. At first I did cry, my 
work ! my work ! But I soon saw that it is 
God’s work, and that he can raise up laborers 
in my stead. Now I have no will of my own. 
I am very comfortable here, for Nellie and Jack 
are very kind to me; but whenever the call 
comes I am ready. It is only stepping out of 
Jack’s house into my Father’s house, to be for- 
ever with the Lord. 

“ I should like to see Paul once more, but I 
cannot wish him here. You must tell him 
about it, Agnes, and give him my warmest love. 
I have thought a great deal about his doubts, 
and I want you to tell him this one word from 
me. ‘ God is love.’ And all that comes to us 
he sends in love. The whole plan of salvation 
is based on love, for ‘God so loved the world. 


AGNES’ STORY. 


229 


that he gave his only begotten Son,’ and it is 
love that will receive us in heaven at the end.” 

The western rays of the sun came through 
the window and formed a halo around his head. 
Already he looked like a being belonging to 
another world, and I felt almost afraid of the 
radiance that shone in his face. 

The others soon came in, and then the con- 
versation became general. 

“ Come often, A^nes,” said Mr. Grey, as I 
bade him good-by, and I promised that I would, 
little dreaming that the end was so very, very 
near. 

That night I sat up till long after my usual 
hour for retiring, busied with a letter to Paul. 
I told him how fast Mr. Grey was failing, and 
I gave him his message. I did not seal my let- 
ter, for I thought I might have later news of 
him in the morning. 

And I had. Before I went down -stairs I 
looked out of the window and saw Dr. Barn- 
ham coming toward the house. I ran down to 
meet him, but Aunt Wendover was at the door 
before me. 

“It is over,” the doctor said. “He went 
home — I can’t call such a transition dying — 
last night. He seemed to rally after you left, 
and when I proposed helping him to his room, 
he said he wanted to wait and see the moon 


230 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


rise. So I drew back the curtain so that he 
could see the sky. None of us talked for a 
while, and Nellie went to the piano and played 
that favorite twilight hymn, ‘ Abide with me, 
fast falls the eventide.’ He hummed a bar or 
two very softly, then as I went nearer to look 
out of the window, he said, ‘ Jack, this moon 
makes me think of one of Wordsworth’s son- 
nets,’ and he repeated a few lines. You know 
it, Agnes, I think. It begins like this : 

“ ‘ With how sad steps, O Moon thou climb’st the 
sky,’ 

“ After that he seemed to lie quietly listening 
to Nellie’s playing. All at once he called, ‘ It 
has come. Jack ! Yes, ready ! ’ as if answering 
to a call. He did not speak again, and in a 
few moments he was gone.” 

As the doctor finished, he could not command 
his voice, and he wiped the tears from his 
cheeks. Aunt Wendover, too, was weeping, 
but I could not cry just then. It seemed wrong 
to grudge him his triumphant entrance. 

I added a few words to Paul’s letter and sent 
it. For two months after we heard nothing 
from him. He sent us newspapers regularly, 
and we thought he meant us to know that he 
was well. If he had known what that long 
silence meant to us, I think he would have 


AGNES’ STORY. 


231 


written, no matter what his trouble was. We 
women have the passive side of life, the wait- 
ing and the anxiety. If the men who are in 
the front of the battle only knew how hard it 
is to wait and wait for news ! 

But I could not blame Paul, for I did not 
know what he was passing through. Sorrow 
makes our dear ones sacred, and we do not dare 
intrude into the inner sanctuary of their hearts. 


CHAPTER XX. 


Paul’s story. 

I go to prove my soul ! 

I see my way as birds their trackless way. 

I shall arrive ! What time, what circuit first, 

I ask not : but unless God send His hail 
Or blinding fireballs, sleet or stifling snow, 

In some time. His good time, ! shall arrive : 

He guides me and the bird. In His good time. 

Robert Browning. 

T SPENT a miserable time after I left the 
Island. Even at this day when I think of 
that time I could weep in self-pity. I never 
knew how it all happened ; but all at once my 
faith gave way, and I was left with nothing to 
cling to. I don’t see how that little episode of 
Cecil could plunge me into such darkness, but 
a man’s hand held before his eyes will obscure 
the sun. And so perhaps, I let that disappoint- 
ment cloud my eyes and hide my Father in 
heaven from me. 

Fool that I was! How petty and childish 
it all seems to me now. But I must not antici- 
pate. Let me faithfully record the struggle' 
with myself and the demon of doubt. For the 

C202) 


Paul’s story. 


233 


doubt lasted long after the wound made by 
Cecil had healed. I knew before long that my 
pride only was hurt ; my heart was not touched. 
I began to feel better sooner than I meant to. 
I had not lost my self-consciousness, and I had 
resolved that I would be a long time getting 
cured. But it is strange how much India rub- 
ber there is in our hearts ; they bound back so 
soon ! Perhaps though, mine was easily healed 
because I was not really in love with Cecil. 
There have been hearts that have broken with 
misery. 

I was quite provoked at myself after a little, 
because I could not be more miserable. I was 
amazed to find that I ate and slept like any 
other man. And the poetry that I wrote to 
the “ false one ” was not a success. Somehow 
I could not get the “lilt.” The pathetic “Fare- 
well” in C minor that I dedicated to her, re- 
mains unfinished to this day. Not long ago I 
found it among some old papers, and I laughed 
over it with — but never mind whom. 

Dr. Barnham’s parting words kept coming 
back to me, and before long I began to see the 
truth in them. At the time, I pitied him for his 
lack of sentiment. I charitably made allowances 
for him, for was he not middle-aged and stout? 
He told me to study and forget everything else, 
and months afterward I acted upon his advice. 


234 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


At first I studied in a hap-hazard way, reading 
German authors, and studying music. I could 
not let music alone, for the very atmosphere 
was full of it. Then I received a letter from 
the doctor with more good advice. I was able 
to see the wisdom of it by that time, and I be- 
gan to look over some medical books, carelessly 
at first ; but before long I saw what a grand 
science it was, and I devoted myself to hard 
study with my good German friend, who was 
interested in me for Dr. Barnham’s sake. 

But that was one side of my existence only. 
There were weary hours when I had to face the 
old unbelief, and such times were not infre- 
quent. Then I would go out and walk the 
streets, hoping to divert myself from my 
thoughts. But all to no purpose ; there is no 
solitude like that one finds in a crowd. So it 
went on for more than a year. 

I wenf on a long tramp through Norway that 
summer with some fellow-students. I have 
nothing to record of those weeks, for they 
were the most miserable of my life. I moved 
when the others moved, but I might as well 
have been a stone for all I saw. or enjoyed. 

I was back at Gottingen when I received 
Agnes’ letter telling of Arthur Grey’s death. 
She had written me that his health was poor, 
but I could not believe that he would die. So 


PAUL’S STORY. 


235 


I was shocked when I opened her letter. Like 
a flash of lightning the thought struck me, 
“ Why is he taken and why am I left ? His life 
was useful and so full of promise, and mine ” — 
I could not finish the sentence: I took up the 
letter and read on to the end. When I came to 
his message, “ God is love,” I stopped and read 
it again. I could not forget the words, and I 
threw myself on my knees, and cried, “God, if 
thou art love, manifest thyself to me.” No 
answer came, and at last I threw myself on my 
bed, and lay tossing there, thinking till it 
seemed that my head was on fire. Day after 
day the struggle went on, and I found no rest. 
It seemed so strange that I, who had always 
been so confident in my faith, should be tossed 
on this sea of doubt, while Aunt Wendover 
knew the “peace that passeth all understand- 
ing.” “ The last shall be first, and the first 
shall be last,” rang in my ears day and night. 

I was taken ill soon after that. I had felt 
wretchedly for a long time, and I could not de- 
pend on my head. One day when I felt that I 
had to succumb to some disease, I addressed a 
number of wrappers, and told a friend who had 
rooms adjoining mine to send a newspaper 
home every week, and on no account to write 
about my condition. He promised, and I re- 
member nothing that happened after that. 


236 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


Sometimes I seemed to see strange faces stand- 
ing over me, and strange voices seemed to talk 
near me, but I could not tell whether I dreamed 
or not. One day I awoke, weak as an infant, 
but perfectly clear in my mind. Somewhere 
in the labyrinths where my soul had travelled, 
I had found my lost peace. I lay there feeling 
a sweet sense of God’s nearness, and then I 
said that he was love. 

As soon as I was strong enough to hold a 
pen, I wrote to the Island and told Aunt Wen- 
dover and Agnes that my trouble was over. 
Why it was sent me I could not tell, though 
there must have been some reason. God 
chastens us for our good, that much we may 
know. 

From the time I rose from my sick-bed I felt 
that God had a work for me to do, and in his 
strength I resolved to do it manfully. I was 
pleased to see that my day dreams — dear chil- 
dren of my fancy — came trooping back to me. 
My plans for helping the world that so much 
needs help were always with me. I burned 
my papers, and those that I wrote afterward 
were very different in tone. 

I did not want to go back to the Island at 
once, so I decided to stay on a while and finish 
my medical course. Agnes and I had talked 
of it years before, and I thought Aunt Wen- 


Paul’s story. 


237 


dover would be as pleased as we were. I never 
felt any call to the ministry, and I knew that 
Christian physicians were needed. How easily 
one might minister to a diseased soul after 
helping bodily suffering. I meant to go home 
after a while and do as Aunt Wendover wished 
me to, make the Island my home. I would help 
Dr. Barnham in his work among the poor in 
the neighboring city, and thus realize one of 
the plans of my boyhood. 

Meantime, I diligently applied myself to my 
work, and I was happy. I had forgotten the 
episode of Cecil, or I remembered it only to 
pity myself for my folly. How much we 
should thank God that some of our prayers are 
not answered ! Already I knew that my feel- 
ing for her was only a boyish fancy; that if 
she had married me she would not have satis- 
fied my life. When a new thought took pos- 
session of me, I hardly dared give it a wel- 
come, so fearful was I that I might mistake 
again. And when, after the lapse of months, 
I was certain that this love would last through 
life and death, even then I was silent out of 
shame. Blind ! blind ! I called myself. How 
true it is that nothing that we really need is 
taken from us. Then I was able to see that 
God in his great wisdom took away a hurtful 
gift to give me something infinitely better. 


238 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


During vacations I used to travel on the 
continent, for Aunt Wendover wished me to 
see everything worth seeing, and I found much 
pleasure in my wanderings from place to place. 
I wrote home, and my letters were answered 
promptly. Nothing seemed to happen at the 
Island; life went on in the same quiet fashion. 
I often fancied Agnes and Aunt Wendover sit- 
ting together, perhaps talking of me. I was 
sure they were always together, for they were 
reconciled at last. I knew that Aunt Wen- 
dover was a changed woman, for even her let- 
ters showed it. She had always written affec- 
tionately to me, but now she wrote much about 
Agnes, and I could see that she thought a great 
deal of her. I was glad that Agnes had her 
reward at last. 


CHAPTER XXL 


AGNES’ STORY. 

Not by appointment do we meet Delight and Joy: 

They heed not our expectancy ; 

But, round some corner in the streets of life, 

They, on a sudden, clasp us with a smile. 

Gerald Masserj. 

T)AUL was yet in Germany when I began to 
notice that Aunt Wendover was failing. 
There had been a general breaking down for 
some time, so Dr. Barnham said. I saw with 
pain that her voice was weak and her step 
strangely feeble for one of her quick, decided 
gait. At last she grew so weak that she kept 
her room, only coming down to one meal some 
days when she felt unusually strong. I was with 
her all the time. I shared her room, and 
helped her with her toilet, performing all of 
Miller’s accustomed duties. 

Paul had been gone for two years and a half, 
and all that time we had lived without him, 
neither of us willing to call him back. My 
own life had been dull, but not exactly un- 
happy. I used to feel badly because I accom- 
plished so little. I made a few clothes for 

( 239 ) 


240 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


poor people, overlooked the housekeeping, for 
Nurse Hillyer was too feeble to work, kept the 
accounts, and nursed Aunt Wendover. It all 
was so trifling, that I did not dare think of the 
great world outside where so much was waiting 
to be done. 

Of course I had no desire to leave Aunt 
Wendover, for I knew she was my first duty. 
Besides, it was a pleasure to nurse her and help 
her. But I foresaw a time not far distant when 
she would not need my care because she would 
not he there. What then ? I sometimes asked 
myself, and I confess that the future looked 
dark to me. I was in my twenty-sixth year, 
and already I felt old. I seemed to have 
reached the meridian of life, and to be on the 
downward slope. To-day, at thirty-six, I feel 
much younger, and I dare say I look younger 
than I did then, for lately the years have touched 
me lightly. 

Aunt Wendover sometimes expressed her 
sorrow because my life was going so, and per- 
haps she grieved over it more than I did. I 
knew that I pleased her, and the knowledge 
gave me great satisfaction. I had no trouble 
now since Paul had found peace and comfort, 
unless it was my dread of losing Aunt Wen- 
dover, and that fear grew on me daily. 

One morning as I sat in her room, busied 


AGNES’ STORY. 


241 


with the week’s accounts, she said, “ Agnes, I 
want Paul, I wish you would write to him and 
ask him to come home. I don’t know how soon 
the end may come, and I must see him again. 
Write carefully ; don’t alarm him unnecessarily, 
for I may be mistaken ; my disease is so de- 
ceiving. But I think that I am failing very 
fast, and I made the doctor say that he thinks 
so too.” 

She did look unusually poorly that morning, 
and I felt my heart sink. I wrote the letter at 
once, and carried it to her. 

“Yes, that is right,” she said. “Now hurry 
John off to post it.” 

“ I have no doubt but Paul will come at 
once,” she said, when I re-entered the room. 
“ He can’t get here before the first of February, 
though,” and she checked the days off on her 
fingers. “ Poor fellow, I hate to send for him. 
I suppose he is enjoying himself, and it will 
seem dull to come home to a whimsical old wo- 
man.” 

“Now, Aunt Wendover, you are not whim- 
sical. And I know Paul would never get over 
it, if we did not send for him till it was too 
late.” 

“ You are right. He will come at once, for 
he loves me I think.” 

I stirred the fire, then I took up some sew- 
16 


242 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


ing and sat down by the window. I felt that 
my aunt was studying my face, and I looked 
up to see if she wanted anything. 

She smiled and asked, ‘‘ Does my close scrut- 
iny annoy you, Agnes ? I like to look at you, 
my dear.” 

I know that I blushed with pleasure, for it 
seemed pleasant to know that Aunt Wendover 
liked me so well. I did not answer her, though 
her words made me very happy. 

“ You are a good girl, Agnes,” she went on, 
still looking at me. “Something very good 
ought to happen to you, for you deserve happi- 
ness. I may not live to see it, but I am sure 
that God will reward you for your goodness to 
me.” 

There was a long silence after that, while the 
fire crackled and glowed on the hearth. 

It seemed only a few days later that the 
door of the sitting-room burst open, and Paul 
walked in. My aunt gave a glad little cry, 
and he caught her in his arms. He kissed her 
on both thin cheeks, then he said reproachfully, 
“Aunt Wendover, why didn’t you tell me be- 
fore? Why didn’t Agnes tell me? I take it 
hard of you both. But where is Agnes ? ” 

I was wondering if he would miss me, and I 
came out from my shelter behind the window 
curtain. He shook hands heartily, but for the 


AGNES’ STOEY. 


243 


first time in his life he omitted to kiss me ; 
I suppose he thought it time to drop such a 
childish custom. 

He looked handsomer than ever, and he had 
improved in many ways. I felt darker and 
more insignificant than ever beside him. Aunt 
Wendover was so proud of him, that she could 
not take her eyes from him, and no wonder. 
The shadow that had hung over us seemed 
lifted, and the house was a bright place now 
that Paul had come home. 

We had tea together in my aunt’s sitting- 
room, and Paul seemed to fill up the little room. 
I smiled to see how little regard Aunt Wen- 
dover had for her hric-d-hrac^ for Paul demolished 
a china shepherdess and a Limoges jar in trying 
to settle himself in a chair. 

“Beg pardon. Aunt Wendover,” he said, 
stooping to pick up the fragments. “ I am 
afraid I am too big to be an ornament to a 
lady’s bower. By the way, I wonder if 1 should 
know my old den up-stairs. Have you used it 
any, Agnes ? ” 

“ I used to, but I have hardly been in it of 
late,” I said. 

“ Agnes has been too busy waiting on me to 
find any time for study,” said Aunt Wendover, 
touching my hand as I gave her her cup of tea. 


244 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


“ You don’t know wliat a good nurse she is, 
Paul.” 

“ I can guess. I knew you had excellent 
care, but I felt it selfish to stay away so long. 
And if I had known how poorly you were, 
nothing would have kept me.” 

“We didn’t wish to spoil your pleasure,” 
said Aunt Wendover. “ It is all right now that 
you are here, and you must not blame your- 
self.” 

After Barbara had carried away the tea- 
things, my aunt said, “ Paul, I want to have a 
talk with you if you are not too tired.” 

I rose to leave the room, but she said, “ No, 
no, Agnes, you must stay. You can’t think how 
Agnes and I love each other, Paul, she has 
been such a comfort to me ! ” 

Paul smiled in a pleased way, as he said, “ I 
knew everything would come around some 
time.” 

“ I want to talk about the property,” Aunt 
Wendover went on, “I made my will once, 
leaving everything to you except an annuity to 
Agnes. But I have made up my mind to divide 
the property equally. It is no more than simple 
justice to Agnes.” 

Paul made an approving gesture, and said, 
“ I always thought Agnes had the best right to 
it all. I never felt satisfied about it.” 


AGNES’ STORY. 


245 


“ But I don’t know how to divide the property. 
I have a large amount of money invested in 
stocks and bonds. I thought of giving that to 
you and leaving Agnes the Island. I hate, 
though, to think of her coming to old age in 
this lonely house.” 

“ She need never be alone. Aunt Wendover,” 
said Paul. “ I shall always be her true friend 
and brother, if — ” 

Aunt Wendover’s face fell. I think she 
hoped for some (5ther answer. I feared lest she 
would say something, and I made an errand 
from the room, murmuring something about 
giving orders for breakfast. 

But Paul put out his hand to stay me, “ Wait, 
Agnes,” he said, then turning to Aunt Wen- 
dover, he went on, “ I want to tell you now lest 
you should not know it, that Agnes’ happiness 
will always be my first care. I want to confess 
to you both, that I made a great mistake three 
years ago. I never loved Cecil Stuart. But 
I do love now, and I know that I am not mis- 
taken this time.” 

Just then I saw that the fire needed atten- 
tion, and I took up the poker, and thrust it in 
the grate. All the while Paul was talking, but 
I scarcely understood him. 

“ I kept quiet out of shame,” he was saying, 


246 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


“ for fear you would think that I changed my 
mind too easily.” 

“Who is the girl, Paul?” Aunt Wendover 
demanded, while I braced myself against the 
grate with the poker, and bent my head as if 
I expected a blow. 

“ It is Agnes,” said Paul simply. 

“ Our Agnes ?” asked my aunt. 

“ Yes, our Agnes.” 

They had been talking as if they were alone 
in the room, but now Paul turned to me and 
said, “ Agnes you have been the blessing of my 
life. Will you walk with me as long as we both 
live?” 

Joy sometimes stuns us, as much as sorrow. 
I could not find my voice. But Aunt Wen- 
dover answered for me. 

“ It is well, Paul. Agnes loves you.” 

“ Thank God! ” said Paul. He laid his hand 
on mine, then stooped and kissed me as natur- 
ally as if we were children again. 

I slipped out of the room, and no one stopped 
me. I went to my old refuge on the stairs, the 
place that had sheltered me in my childish 
troubles, and in spite of myself, I began to cry 
hysterically. I may have been there an hour or 
ten minutes, I don’t know which, when I heard 
some one coming along the passage, and I knew 
Paul’s step. 


AGNES’ STORY. 


247 


“Agnes, are you there?” he called. “I 
thought so. I have never failed to find you 
here after hunting the whole house over. Are 
you crying? Agnes, are you displeased with 
me ? If I made you unhappy just now, I will 
take everything back and we will be Paul and 
Agnes, dear friends, and nothing else.” 

I couldn’t think of anything to say, and I 
kept crying in an idiotic manner. 

This is getting serious,” said Paul after ten 
minutes had passed. “Agnes, you will make 
yourself ill. Come with me.” 

Paul drew my hand through his arm, and we 
walhed up and down the hall a few times. 
Then he opened the drawing-room door, and, 
going to the piano, began to play softly. His 
music had the desired effect, and I began to 
grow calmer. Presently I went and stood in 
the window and looked at the water. Paul 
stopi^ed playing, and came and stood beside me. 

He laid his hand on my shoulder, and said, 
“Come, Agnes, let us settle this. Aunt Wen- 
dover is anxious to know the truth.” 

“ Paul, you asked me that because you were 
sorry for me, not because it was your wish,” I 
said, facing him.' 

He laughed at that, and his eyes were frank 
and honest as he said, “ Agnes, you know me 
better than that. I would be a scoundrel if I 


248 


AVEN DOVER HOUSE. 


feigned what I did not feel. You don’t doubt 
my word, do you?” 

“ No, but ” 

But what ? My only wonder is that I ever 
gave a thought to any one else. This is the ' 
truth, Agnes. I had been in Germany but a 
little while before I saw my mistake. I will 
try to make you very happy. You are not 
afraid to trust yourself to me, are you ? ” 

“ No, but I hesitated for your sake. I know 
you are throwing yourself away,” I said, think- 
ing of my plain face. 

“ Oh ! if that is all, that is my lookout,” said 
Paul gaily. “ Now let us go and see Aunt 
Wendover.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 


AGNES’ STOKY. 

“ Death is another life. We bow our heads 
At going out, we think, and enter straight 
Another golden chamber of the King’s 
Larger than this we leave, and lovelier.” 

\ UNT Wendover rallied after Paul came, and 
she seemed quite like herself again. 

“ I am almost sorry that I hurried you home, 
Paul,” she said one day. 

“ It was time that 1 came,” he replied. “ I 
should have come in the spring anyway.” 

“ I believe that I am getting better, and it 
must be your coming that has worked the 
change.” 

“You certainly are better. Aunt Wendover. 
I am a doctor myself now, and I shall watch 
you so closely that you cannot fall so ill again.” 

Aunt Wendover shook her head. You can’t 
put it off very long, Paul. I am an old woman, 
much older than my years. I wore myself out 
without waiting for time to do it for me. I am 
thankful that neither you nor Agnes have a 
disposition like mine. I sit and look at you 

( 249 ) 


250 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


both, and think how useful you will be in the 
world, and then I am filled with regret for my 
wasted life.” 

“ Don’t, aunt, don’t. You have lately done 
all you could, and Christ will forgive the rest. 
Don’t dwell on the past.” 

“ I can’t help it, Paul. I was thinking only 
this morning about the history of this house. 
If its walls could speak they might tell strange 
stories. I am glad that its new owners will be 
people of a different stamp. Paul, when are 
you and Agnes going to be married ? ” 

“ The very question I wanted to ask ! You 
would like it to be soon, I suppose, and I can 
see no need of putting it ahead. Agnes hasn’t 
much pride in dress, and I don’t imagine that 
she will insist upon sending to Paris for her 
trousseau^ 

“ She ought to have the best that money can 
buy. But I know that fine things do not please 
her. She looks lovely to me in her brown 
merino, and as for ornaments, she has enough.” 

“Ornaments!” laughed Paul. “I never 
saw her wear any but the bracelet I gave her 
years ago.” 

“ Agnes wears ‘ the ornament of a meek and 
quiet spirit,’ ” said my aunt. 

“ And surely ‘ her price is above rubies,’ ” 
said Paul, catching Aunt Wendover’s meaning. 


AGNES’ STORY. 


251 


I rose, meaning to run away from their com- 
pliments, but Paul would not let me escape. 
“ Come,” he said, “ set the day. We have had 
quite a long acquaintance with each other, and 
I don’t see why we can’t be married very soon.” 

“ I am waiting to see if you are going to 
change your mind again,” I said, taking up my 
sewing again, since Paul’s broad back set 
against the door prevented my escaping. 

“ 1 suppose I deserve that fling,” said Paul, 
running his fingers through his hair, “ but I am 
not quite such a boy as I was then. Aunt 
Wendover, what do you think was one of 
Agnes’ objections to marrying me ? Because I 
am a trifle younger than she is ! ” 

“ A whole year and a half,” I said, “ and I 
am sure I feel twice as old as you do.” 

“ Poor Agnes, she has had care enough to 
make her feel old,” said Aunt Wendover. 

“And all tlie time that she was doing her 
duty, I was away enjoying myself. Selfish that 
I was, I should have remained at my post in- 
stead of running away like a child in the sulks. 
Agnes Wendover,” said Paul, turning around 
to me, “ I don’t believe you have any faith in 
me, even now ! ” 

But I had, and I told him so. He laughed, 
and seemed satisfied with my answer. 

“Come, let us decide about the wedding,” 


252 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


Aunt Wendover began again. “Something 
may happen to me, and I want to see you chil- 
dren married very soon. Paul, your father’s 
birthday comes three weeks from to-morrow. I 
would like you to be married then. How would 
you like it ? ” 

“ Very much, if Agnes will consent, and*I 
suppose she is thinking about those dresses. 
How is it, Agnes ? ” 

■“ It shall be just as you and Aunt Wendover 
make it,” I said. “ Suit yourselves.” I could 
not refuse, for I knew that Aunt Wendover 
had no other wish in the world. 

“Good child,” said Aunt Wendover, smiling 
her satisfaction. 

“ But I don’t want any fuss made,” I said, 
“ or I shall be frightened to death. I don’t 
want any one here but Dr. and Mrs. Barnham, 
though I don’t much mind if Mr. Bishop 
comes.” 

Aunt Wendover showed much interest in the 
preparations that went on, and every day she 
seemed better. But we were deceived, perhaps 
mercifully so. It wanted but a week of the 
day set for the wedding when she was suddenly 
taken worse. I had never seen her quite so 
ill, and I feared that she would never speak 
again. After a while Paul and Dr. Barnham 


AGNES’ STOEY. 


253 


relieved her a little, and she said painfully, 
“ Send for the minister.” 

We despatched John in all haste, and as soon 
as possible he returned, bringing the pastor with 
him. We supposed that she wished for the 
minister because she knew she was dying, but 
asb soon as he entered the room, her meaning 
became apparent. I was standing close beside 
her and so was Paul ! With an effort she took 
a hand of each, and said, “ Children, I wish 
you to be married now. Paul, I shall die easy 
if I know that Agnes is your wife. Something 
may happen if it is delayed.” 

Paul turned a shade paler. “ It shall be as 
you like, Aunt Wendover,” he said. “But do 
you think this is death ? ” 

I know it is,” she murmured. “ Agnes, you 
will not refuse me this last request ? ” 

Paul drew the minister aside and whispered 
a few words to him. Then he came and stood 
by my side, and in a few solemn words the 
good old pastor made us one. 

“ Thank God ! ” said Aunt Wendover, groping 
for my hand,* for already the dimness of death 
was upon her. “ Agnes, dear child, good-by.” 

“ I stooped to kiss her, and she smiled faintly. 
Then Paul bent over her, and wiped the death- 
damp from her forehead. She tried to close 
her fingers upon his, and she whispered, “ Fare- 


254 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


well, Paul. I shall soon see him — Jesus! Yes, 
it is light beyond. I was so afraid that it would 
not be. Where is Agnes ? Be kind to her ; 
Paul, make her life as bright as possible.” 

And with these words upon her lips, she 
breathed her last. 

It always seemed so pathetic that she thought 
of me in her last moments. Surely she atoned 
for any harshness and neglect in years that 
were gone I 

As we went to look at her later we noticed 
how peaceful was the expression of her face. 
The lines about her mouth were softened, and 
her features had lost the stern expression that 
was so natural to them. 

“ She is at peace,” I said, giving vent to the 
tears that would fall. 

“ Yes,” said Paul, wiping his own eyes, “ she 
is at peace after long years of strife. I think 
there must be joy in heaven when such a tem- 
pest-tossed mariner as she reaches a safe haven. 
For her sake I am glad that she is gone home ; 
but we shall miss her, Agnes.” 

“ Yes ; it does not seem possible that she is gone 
forever. No, I will not grudge her her rest ! ” 

On the third day we carried her to the church 
where she had lately loved to attend, and after 
the services, we laid her to rest in the grave- 
yard beside her father and mother. 


AGNES’ STOny. 


255 


The great stone house looked gloomy enough 
as we came home, and though it was a mild 
April day, I shuddered as I passed through its 
doors. I could not grow accustomed to her 
absence. A dozen times each day, I started to 
go to her, and sometimes I reached the door of 
her room before I remembered that she was 
gone. Paul, too, missed her as much as I did, 
and we were quite lost without her. 

One morning as we sat at breakfast, Paul 
said, “ Agnes, what do you say to leaving the 
Island for a few months, and taking a tour ? I 
think a change will do us good. Should you 
like it?” 

Yes, I should,” I said, after thinking a mo- 
ment. 

“ Then that settles it. We will go, and the 
sooner the better. We ought to have an out- 
ing before we settle down into staid old mar- 
ried people. After that we will come home 
and decide what we are to make of our lives. 
I mean to do something worth doing, but I 
think that a short play-spell will be good for 
both of us. You are all worn out with care 
and watching, and you need a change.” 

We hurried our preparations, and in a very 
short time we left the Island behind us and 
went out to explore tlie world that seemed like 
a fairy-land to me. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Paul’s stoey. 

She makes her life one sweet record 

And deed of charity. 

Longfellow. 

•^WO years passed before we saw the Island 
again. We roamed over Europe, enjoy- 
ing ourselves to our heart’s content. We gave 
ourselves up to making the most of our holi - 
day, and we acted like two children. But after 
a while I .grew tired of living in hotels and 
inns, and I began to think a great deal about 
Wendover House. I said nothing to Agnes on 
the subject till I began to suspect that she, too, 
was homesick. We had been climbing the 
Matterhorn, and as we neared the foot of the 
mountain, and sat watching the sun go down, 
I said, “ Agnes, let us go home. I believe I 
want to see the dear old Island again.” 

“ So do I,” she replied, “ I have been going 
to speak of it, but I hated to disturb 3"our en- 
joyment. I can hardly wait till I get there. I 
have enjoyed my trip abroad very much, Paul. 
I don’t feel as old and worn as 1 did.” 

( 256 ) 


PAUL’S STORY. • 


267 


“You are growing younger,” I said, laugh- 
ing at her. “ To hear you talk one would think 
you were middle-aged at least, instead of 
twenty-seven.” 

“ Twenty-eight,” she said, “ for my birthday 
comes next month.” 

“ Have your own way,” I said, then I asked, 
“Agnes, what are we going to do with our- 
selves when we get home ? ” 

“Paul, I wish I knew,” she said gravely. 
“ I have been thinking a great deal about it. 
We have a great responsibility, Paul. God has 
given us youth and health and leisure and 
means. I wish I knew what he wants us to do 
with them all.” 

Let us leave it with him, and ask him to 
direct us,” I said. Will you make it the sub- 
ject of prayer ? ” 

Agnes promised, and we walked slowly to- 
ward our inn. 

We did not mention the subject till a couple 
of months later when we were at home. We 
were sitting in the drawing-room one evening, 
and as I watched Agnes’ needle flying to and 
fro, I said, “ Agnes, do you remember our talk 
the day we climbed the Matterhorn ? ” 

“ Perfectly.” 

“Well, have you solved the problem of our 

existence?” 

17 


268 


WENDOVER HOUSE, 


“ No, have you? ” 

“ Perhaps. The truth is, I have an idea, but 
I don’t know whether it can be carried out or 
not. I was just thinking that perhaps we who 
once so long ago found a home at Wendover 
House, might make a home for other orphan 
children.” 

“ Where would you get your orphans ? ” 
asked Agnes, snipping at her thread. “But 
what a foolish question when the world is full 
of homeless, friendless little ones, and no Aunt 
Wendover to take them.” She began to walk 
around, and I knew that she did not consider 
the plan an impracticable one. I have always 
stood in fear of Agnes’ clear, sound judgment, 
for I have always been told that she is more 
“ practical ” than I am. 

I had just made the merest suggestion, but 
she was arranging details at once, I lay back 
on the lounge and watched her and waited for 
what she had to say. 

“ One thing is sure ; we have room enough 
for a small arm3^ There is the ball-room 
which we never will use, it will make a charm- 
ing school-room if once fitted up, and there are 
rooms and rooms in the second and third stories 
that are never opened. It would do me good 
to have life in them once more.” 

“ Why, Agnes, how enthusiastic you are,” I 


PAUL’S STORY. 259 

said. “ I didn’t know that you would think well 
of my suggestion.” 

“ The only drawback is this, I am afraid that 
you will have too much care. Are you not go- 
ing to overdo ? You have your poor people in 
the city, and you are always hunting up some 
object of charity. You really do a great deal, 
Paul.” 

“ Nonsense, Agnes ! Don’t worry about me. 
I was just about to remark that I feared that 
this new departure might bring you too much 
care. If you think best, we can give it up, and 
keep on working as best we can.” 

“No, I don’t wish to give it up. There are 
many people who are willing to help with money 
and other things, but not many are so situated 
that they can take needy children into their 
homes, and by God’s help make honest men 
and women of them. That is what I want to 
do, and I am so glad you had the idea given to 
you.” 

“But, Agnes, there will be some unpleasant 
things about it,” I said. “We must look at all 
sides of the question before we decide.” 

“ I know it will not be exactly pleasant to 
have our home-life spoiled, and that is the first 
thought that came to me when you broached 
the subject to-night. But 1 don’t think it need 
disturb us so very much, and if it does, we will 


260 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


solace ourselves with the thought that we are 
not living unto ourselves.” 

“ That is my good Agnes,” I said, going to 
her and giving her a kiss. 

“ Another thing that makes me like the plan is 
this, I think that it would please Aunt Wen- 
dover if she were here now. There is no tell- 
ing what good her money may accomplish if we 
are faithful stewards. But tell me what put 
the idea into your head, Paul ? ” 

Then I told her how I had lately come across 
two orphan children who were likely to be sent 
to the almshouse. “ And that is just where I 
don’t want them to go,” I said. “ I can’t for- 
get the kind hand that took me from an alms- 
house, and I feel that I ought to prevent these 
children going there.” 

“ O Paul, dear, don’t mention your being in 
that horrible place, I can’t bear to think of it,” 
Agnes cried. 

“ It did not hurt me,” I replied, “ but the 
memory is not pleasant to me.” 

“ How do these children look ? Tell me 
about them, please.” 

“ They are bright children of six and eight. 
The boy is named Harry, and he is the eldest. 
His sister’s name is Nannie. She would be a 
lovely little thing if she was carefully dressed 
and had nourishing food for a little while. 


PAUL’S STORY. 


261 


Their parents were respectable people, they 
simply were very unfortunate.” 

“ Poor little things,” said Agnes. “ Paul, I 
think we must take them. We’ll begin with 
these, and if any more such cases come under 
our observation, we will take it as a sign that 
this is our work.” 

“Very well,’’ I said, quite satisfied that we 
would find plenty more cases before long. 

“ When will you bring those children ? ” 
Agnes asked. 

“ To-morrow if you like.” 

“ I do like. Paul, there is the very little 
room I used to have ! I am going to fit it up 
for the girl. Then there is the room right next, 
the boy shall have that. Oh, there are great 
possibilities in this big house ! W on’t some of 
the old ghosts stare to see a lot of romping 
boys and girls disturbing their stately walks ! ” 

I laughed at that. “ Agnes, I believe you are 
disappointed because you never yet found a 
ghost in Wendover House.” 

“No, I never found one, but it is a fact that 
I never enter those shut-up rooms without a 
shudder. And to this day I fancy that some of 
those old portraits in the gallery move as I 
pass. 

“ I know there will be plenty of people who 
will try to frighten us. They will tell us what 


262 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


mischief and trouble a lot of children will 
make. But we shall not let them frighten us 
out of doing the Lord’s work. I know where 
we will get sympathy ; from Dr. Barnham and 
his w’ife.” 

“ Oh, the doctor will be delighted. He says 
that he never had much money to spend on 
charity, and he means to enjoy helping us spend 
ours. I think, though, that he gave a great 
deal. His income has always been small, for 
he was forever doctoring poor people who could 
not pay him.” 

“ He is one of the salt of the earth,” said 
Agnes, thoughtfully. “Aunt Wendover used 
to wonder how he could be contented in such a 
life ; but I am sure he has been very happy.” 

That was the beginning of it all. 

The next day I took Nanny and Harry home, 
and Agnes received them in her own sweet 
way. They had been there but a short time 
before she confided to me that she really began 
to love them. And as for the children, they 
thought her an angel. And it was no wonder, 
for she was so good to the poor little waifs ! 

After a while another boy came, then two 
little girls, then two more boys, and Agnes 
made a place for them all. It was surprising 
what cosy rooms she fitted up for the little 
strangers, and more surprising still to see how 


Paul’s story. 


263 


they changed under her management. For 
some of them were not such promising speci- 
mens as Nannie and Harry, and I often won- 
dered what Agnes would do with them. She 
made some failures, of course, but many more 
successes. Gradually matters got systematized. 
There is a school-room where lessons are given 
under Agnes’ supervision, a needy young lady 
being the teacher. As soon as the girls are 
old enough, they are taught housekeeping and 
sewing, for Agnes considers them necessary to 
a thorough education. The boys, too, help in 
the lighter work on the Island, thus developing 
their frames, and getting the necessary exer- 
cise. There is plenty of room for romping, 
shouting boyhood, for the Island covers fifty 
acres. 

I think that Agnes and I are happier than if we 
were living alone in state and splendor. There 
is much comfort in knowing that we are doing 
something to lighten the world’s misery; 
though we sometimes get discouraged as we 
think of the masses of needy ones that we can- 
not help. If Wendover Island were as big as 
Greenland, and Agnes could have it crowded 
with poor children, I think she would be per- 
fectly content. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

AGNES’ STORY. 

JT is SO long since I have undertaken to 
chronicle anything about Wendover House, 
that it seems strange to begin. There is not 
much to tell of it or its inmates, for our lives 
run on in the old uneventful way. 

It is nearly eight years since Nannie and 
Harry came to the Island, and now instead of 
two orphan children we have twelve. Among 
them are boys and girls of all dispositions and 
characters. Nannie and Harry are nearly 
grown up, and they are a great help to us in 
the school-room and elsewhere. No others can 
be quite so near to us, although we dearly love 
all our little people. 

Of course this work of ours often has some 
unpleasant features. We take any needy child 
that we hear of, and sometimes we find one 
that is hard to control, even vicious. But 
there is hope even of such, and with labor and 
prayer they are brought to better things. 

Paul is the leading spirit of the enterprise. 
T know that he is prone to give overmuch 

( 264 ) 


AGNES’ STORY. 


265 


credit to me, but it does not belong to me. 
The plan was his, and it is worthy of him. 
The little fair-haired laddie who used to cry 
out in his sleep as he dreamed of suffering hu- 
manity, is doing much to relieve suffering. He 
is so kind, so patient, and yet so firm, that he 
works wonders on our most unpromising boys. 
They love him, and most of them are trying to 
imitate his example. And well they may, for if 
there were more men like Paul, the world 
would be a better place. He is constantly at 
work in the city opposite, as well as on our 
Island, and his skill in healing both mind and 
body, enables him to do much good. 

He sometimes tells me that the fondest dream 
of his life has been realized. I don’t know 
that I ever indulged in any dreams, but I do 
know that I am perfectly happy, perfectly sat- 
isfied in the life I lead. 

I am pleased that Paul still retains an ardor 
for his old pursuits. Music is his chief pleas- 
ure. It rests him when everything else fails ; 
for he is often weary with his labors. He has 
had an organ built in the music-room, and of- 
ten he plays at twilight as was his custom 
years ago. The children will leave their play, 
and cluster around the door to listen. I know 
that his music helps us all, and I am sure I 
shall never hear any music half so sweet as 


266 


WENDOVER HOUSE. 


Paul’s, till I listen to the song of the redeemed 
on the “ other side.” 

He still keeps his den in the tower, and when 
he goes there and shuts the door, I know what 
that means. And after he comes away I steal 
up-stairs and find a scrap of paper that holds a 
bit of verse that now and then comes to him 
in his busy life. He smiles at my praise of his 
writing, but he always leaves his papers where 
I can find them. And I am as proud of them 
as I was of the childish efforts of thirty years 
ago. 

So he is the same Paul, with his passion for 
philanthrophy, music, and literature, and I am 
glad that he is the same. He often tells me 
that I am the same Agnes, and I fear that I am. 
I seem to make the same mistakes I used to 
make, though I am thankful that I am as much 
of a woman as I am. I know that in one respect 
I am changed, for Agnes Raymond is a much 
happier woman than Agnes Wendover was. I 
suppose it is because I am doing something 
worth doing, and, besides, I have many, many 
blessings, more than I deserve. Aunt Wen- 
dover’s last wish for me has been granted. My 
life is bright, for which I thank God ! 

Dear Aunt Wendover ! she has been at peace 
for more than ten years. That is the way Paul 
and I always speak of her. We never say that 


AGNES' STORY. 


267 


she is dead, but always at peace, or at rest. I 
suppose we like to think of her peace, for she 
had little of it here. I know she would ap- 
prove of our course, if she were here now, 
and I like to remember that it is her money 
that is doing the work. It seems as if she 
has a share of it. Paul and I often talk of her, 
for there are many things to remind us of 
her. And no spot is more sacred to us than 
her grave. We often go there on the Sabbath, 
and carry some of the flowers plucked from 
bushes that she tended with her own hands. 

Our eldest child, a seven-year old girl, is 
named Alicia Wendover, though we have short- 
ened the name to Alice, as better suited to the 
little maid. She is tall and dark-eyed, a “ clear 
Wendover,” as our friends are won’t to say. 
Her brother, three years younger, is named 
Arthur Grey, for his father’s friend and mine. 
He is fair and handsome, looking much as Paul 
did as a child, and he has Paul’s happy disposi- 
tion. Our own children grow up among our 
orphans, and while ours must, of course, be 
much dearer, but little difference is made. We 
are like one large family, all bound together in 
love. 

Wendover House looks just the same as of 
old. Its gray walls are overgrown with ivy, 
and its great stone lions still guard the entrance. 


268 


WBNDOVEB HOUSE. 


But within it is very different. There are no 
more stately parlors, no closed rooms. The 
sunlight streams in at every window, for Dr. 
Paul prescribes sunlight for all ills, and I love 
it as much as when I was a child. The grounds 
are full of tents and hammocks and games, and 
boys and girls roam over the whole Island, 
intent upon some sport. Just now I look 
from my window in Paul’s den, where I love to 
sit when I have a leisure hour, and I can see 
the other end of the Island where four or five 
of our boys have pitched a tent, and are boiling 
a kettle in true gipsy fashion. Nannie is lead- 
ing little Arthur across the lawn to meet Harry, 
whose boat is just touching the wharf. A 
couple of half-grown girls are playing croquet 
before the house, and Alice and two little girls 
of her own age are having a game of “ cats’ 
cradle ” close by. It is a pleasant, peaceful 
scene, and yet my eyes grow dim as I look on 
it. 

But Paul is coming from the city. I see him 
wave his hat to the youngsters on the lawn. 
He must not find me here with tears in my 
eyes, so let me hasten, and finish my task before 
the bell rings for dinner. 

We are only children going to school, and we 
cannot have our life-lessons perfectly. I will 
not mourn over the mistakes and short-comings 


AGNES’ STORY. 


269 


of my yesterdays. Let me rather press on, de- 
termined to do better with my to-morrows. So 
I hope our life will float on, happy and blessed, 
till one day we shall exchange this world for 
another, and go on working where we shall 
make no mistakes. 

Our home is a delightful spot to us, but 
where our happy Island is located, I will leave 
the reader to guess. I will say only that it is 
not in Utopia. 


THE END. 




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